A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  Even lost in sensation as she was, another part of her mind was noting his reactions to the things she did and storing them up so that she could please him later. How was it that arousing him could give her so much pleasure?

  Untouched as she had been, her ideas about what happened between men and women had been somewhat vague . . . at least until she had had that startling and informative conversation with the woman from the bordello. Certainly she had never dreamed that the whole thing would prove to be so enjoyable. She had wanted a child, but never had she thought that the act of getting one would turn out to be something she longed for, as well.

  Now, as Graeme kissed his way down her body, his hands awakening in her such sensations that she felt she must shatter with the delight, she could only wish that she had not waited so long to discover it. Then he was inside her, filling her, moving with long, languorous strokes, and Abigail ceased to think at all.

  She moved with him, delighting in his strength, his power, so carefully leashed to please her. Tension coiled within her, but now, knowing the prize that awaited her, she was content to let it spin out until at last she reached the crest and tumbled over the edge. She heard his hoarse cry, felt his body shudder against hers, and she knew that he, too, had found his release.

  He collapsed against her, his heavy weight an entirely different pleasure. Heat poured from Graeme, his skin damp with sweat, and his lungs labored for air. Abigail relished his reaction. She kissed his shoulder, and his skin trembled at her touch.

  Graeme rolled over, taking her with him, so that she nestled in the crook of his shoulder. His arms were still wrapped around her, his leg anchoring hers to the bed. She felt the brush of his lips against her hair.

  This, she thought, was what she had ached for for so long and not even known that she wanted. This, at long last, was happiness.

  chapter 17

  The following day Graeme and Abby called on Milton Baker’s widow. Their coach carried them into an unprepossessing area, the streets becoming narrower and the buildings less well-tended the farther along they went. By the time they reached the address they sought, the road was so narrow that they had to leave the carriage to walk the last few yards. The driver looked uneasy, and Abby suspected that had it been a cab rather than their own vehicle, the coachman would not have waited for them.

  The addresses were not marked, so they had to ask for directions from passersby, but eventually they found the right set of stairs. Graeme knocked, but it was a long time before anyone answered, even though the sound of coughing indicated someone was inside.

  A woman opened the door, one hand on the doorjamb for support. She was small—Abby was uncertain whether she was actually short or just bent over so much she appeared that way. She was thin, though the loose hang of her dress hinted that she had not always been so. Shadowed eyes and sallow skin completed the look of ill health. The woman pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and turned away, coughing.

  A pang of pity went through Abby. She glanced at Graeme, and he curled a hand around her waist as if she needed support, an entirely unnecessary gesture that somehow made her feel better.

  “We are sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Baker,” Graeme began. “We came to offer our condolences.” The other woman looked at him dully. Graeme tried again. “I am Lord Montclair. Your husband worked for my father.”

  “I remember. But you didn’t want him.” She seemed more matter-of-fact about it than resentful.

  “I already had a business agent.”

  “Milton expected it. He knew he’d have no chance with you after he had endorsed your father’s investment. Excuse me, I must sit down. I’m not well.”

  There was no arguing with that. Mrs. Baker sank into a chair beside the small stove, burning despite the warmth of the day. It made the small room stifling, but Mrs. Baker huddled next to the stove as if chilled. She gestured toward a nearby chair, a spindly thing that looked as if it might collapse. Abigail sat down in it gingerly, and Graeme came to stand beside her.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Baker looked at Abigail. “The woman he went to see.”

  “Yes. He told me he had information for me.”

  The other woman nodded. “He did that for me, you know. He wasn’t that kind of man. It was hard for him after Lord Montclair lost the money. Everyone knew, you see, that Milton had been foolish enough to agree it was a good investment. Still, he was able to get a job as a clerk, at least, and we managed on that. Till I came down sick.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “He wasn’t a bad man.” The other woman’s eyes filled with tears. “It hurt him inside; he didn’t like to frighten you. But it was all he could think to do.” She peered intently at Abigail. “Were you there? Was he in pain?”

  “No, he wasn’t in pain.” It seemed the only comfort she could offer the woman. “I don’t think he even realized what had happened, it was so quick.”

  “That’s good. I’d hate to think he suffered.”

  “Mrs. Baker, I wanted to give you the money he asked for.” Abigail pulled the roll of bills from her purse and handed it to her.

  The other woman stared at Abigail in amazement, but her fingers quickly curled around the money. “Thank you. I— You are a fine lady. I hope he told you what you wanted to know.”

  “He wasn’t able to tell me all of it. Do you know what he planned to say?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Mrs. Baker’s hand clenched convulsively around the money as though she feared Abigail might snatch it back. “He knew something about what happened back then. With Lord Reginald and that charity.” She cast a cautious glance at Graeme, and he nodded reassuringly. “It bothered him.”

  “What bothered him, Mrs. Baker?” Abby asked softly.

  “Milton said he hadn’t done it—Lord Montclair. He said it wasn’t Montclair who took the money.”

  “What?” Graeme stared. “Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded emphatically. “He—Milton took to drink for a while, and sometimes when he’d had too much, he’d talk. He’d say they were wrong; it wasn’t Lord Reginald, and maybe he should have told someone. Then he’d scowl and say, ‘But it served him right. Why should I lift a finger to help him?’ He was angry, you see, because you didn’t hire him on, sir. Milton expected it, but still he couldn’t help but be angry because he’d only done what your father wanted. He felt guilty, too, though, because he said nothing. After Milton gave up the gin, he stopped talking about that time. Then I got sick, and we hadn’t enough money, and he was desperate. He heard about you coming here, my lady, and that’s when he decided he could get money for what he knew.”

  Abigail glanced at Graeme. His face was an odd blend of hope and disbelief. Since he seemed unwilling or unable to speak, she asked, “If Lord Montclair hadn’t done it, why didn’t Montclair himself speak up?”

  “He was proud, you see, and it would have been a great scandal if anything was said. Better to just pay it back and keep it quiet.”

  “But, if he didn’t do it, who did?”

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Baker shook her head. “Milton never told me that. He just said someone else took it. He said you’d pay to find out Lord Montclair’s father wasn’t a criminal. He didn’t want to go to his lordship, you see.” She glanced toward Graeme apologetically. “I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you.” Abigail smiled at her. “I’m very glad you told us this. I—I hope the money helps.”

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you.”

  It was clear that the woman was starting to flag, so they took their leave. Abigail slipped her hand into Graeme’s arm as they went down the stairs; it was hard as iron. His face was unreadable in the dimness of the stairwell. When they stepped outside, he took a deep breath, as if cleansing himself of something.

  “She couldn’t be right.” The uncertainty in Graeme’s eyes belied his words. “He told me himself he’d done it.”

  “What did he say exactly? Did he
say he had taken it?”

  “Of c—” He stopped, then sighed and shook his head. “Honestly? I’m not sure.” He was deep in thought as they walked to the waiting carriage. When they climbed in and the carriage started rolling, he said, “I can’t remember him actually saying he took the money. I think his words were, ‘The foundation’s money is gone, and it’s my fault.’ Or perhaps, ‘I am responsible.’

  “Father was obviously ashamed, and, frankly, I was so shocked that I didn’t even question him about it. I think I asked what had happened or where it had gone, and he said it didn’t matter. I was so furious I barely spoke to him for weeks afterward. I couldn’t bear to be around him—or anyone, really. I was horrid.” He had been staring blindly out the window as he talked, and now he cast a quick, abashed glance at Abigail. “You know what I was like. The truth is, things were never the same between my father and me after that. We talked; we were polite. But we were never . . . comfortable together. Then he died.”

  Seeing the bleakness on his face, Abigail reached over and slipped her hand into his. He glanced at her, surprised, and tightened his clasp. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

  “Who else should you tell?” Abigail said reasonably. “I promise you, no one understands better than I feeling torn about one’s father. I know the sort of man my father is; I’ve felt shamed by the things he’s done. Angry. There were times when I hated him and wanted to be miles away from him. But still, he’s my father, and deep down, I cannot help but love him.”

  “Of course you do.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand in a small gesture of comfort.

  “In his own way, Thurston loves me,” Abby went on. “His rules and restrictions, his insistence that I do this thing or that, until I thought I could not bear it anymore—to his way of thinking, he was protecting me, keeping me safe and sheltered. He was certain he knew what I should have, what would make me happy. He showered me with presents; he gave me everything I asked for and much more besides. He even bought me a husband.” She flashed a teasing smile at him and was rewarded when his lips curled up ruefully in return.

  “A rather disappointing present there.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Abby squeezed his hand again. “Just because you love someone, it doesn’t mean you have to be blind to his faults or approve of everything he does. I’m sure your father knew you loved him even if you were rightfully upset at him.”

  “Perhaps.” He was silent for a moment. “Everyone loved my father. Well, you met him; you know what he was like.”

  “He was a very handsome man,” Abigail agreed. In truth, the main thing she remembered about him was that she thought to herself that this was how Graeme would look when he was older. “And quite pleasant.”

  “Yes. If you do not remember him well, my grandmother will be happy to expound on his charm. There was, apparently, none who could equal his manners or his expertise on the dance floor or his seat on a horse.”

  “I believe mothers often feel that way about their sons.”

  “Yes. But she is right. Ladies loved him—and he loved them in return. He wasn’t faithful to my mother. A very minor fault in my grandmother’s eyes—at least he was usually discreet. Most felt that way, I suppose. But I had seen how my mother cried over his ‘indiscretions’ and I could not be so forgiving. I swore I would never be like him.

  “He was foolish and feckless, and he could not understand why I couldn’t see that art and jewels and horses and elegance were more important than something so mundane as the state of our finances. He told me one would think I was in trade, the way I nattered on about his spending.”

  Abigail let out a mocking gasp. “A grievous insult!”

  Graeme shrugged. “To him it was. As frivolous as he was about many things, the title was important to him. The Parr name. That was why I was so shocked by what he had done. He was careless about money and his wedding vows, but he was a man of his word, and he had a strong code of conduct. He would have called himself a man of honor. I could hardly believe he had done something so disgraceful.”

  “So you would not be surprised if he had not been the one to embezzle the money?”

  “No. I would have firmly believed it was stolen by someone else if Father had not said what he did to me.”

  “Saying one is responsible is not precisely the same as saying he did it himself,” Abby pointed out.

  “That’s true.”

  “Would he have taken the blame for someone else?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. For my mother, yes, or my grandmother, or even me, someone he felt he had a duty to protect. But one thing I am certain of is that none of us embezzled the money. On the other hand . . . he was in charge of the fund. He was responsible for it. If it disappeared ‘on his watch,’ so to speak, he might very well view it as his fault. He would feel that he was honor-bound to replace the money no matter who took it.”

  “He wouldn’t have turned the matter over to the police?”

  “No, I think Mrs. Baker was right in that. He would have wanted to keep the whole matter secret, whoever the culprit was. Avoiding scandal would have been his first priority. An investigation would have made it all public.” He sighed. “I wish now I had talked to him about it, that I’d asked him the details.”

  “I wonder . . .”

  Graeme turned to look at her. “What?”

  “What if we were to look into it?” As Graeme’s eyebrows shot up, Abby went on hastily. “I don’t mean bring the authorities into it. I mean us, you and me. Are there any records from that charity?”

  “I suppose so. Our family isn’t apt to throw things away. There might be some old files—correspondence, maybe even the financial records. But I’m not sure how they would prove anyone else embezzled the money.”

  “Mr. Baker figured it out somehow. It’s possible he did so from working on your father’s financial records. And if Mr. Baker knew of it, there might have been others, as well. We could talk to some of the other people who were in the organization. I presume you never questioned any of them.”

  “No. It never occurred to me; I thought Father was the one who had committed the crime. But I doubt anyone’s going to confess to it.”

  “Probably not. But people might have suspicions that they would share with you. You’re one of their own, after all.”

  “It would make no difference now,” he said slowly. “I could do nothing because of the scandal.”

  “But wouldn’t you like to know anyway?”

  “You’re right.” Graeme smiled at her. “I would.”

  Abby settled back against the seat. She realized that in the course of talking, she had forgotten to let go of Graeme’s hand. He made no move to pull away. Neither did she.

  chapter 18

  “Well.” Abby cast her eyes around Graeme’s study. “Where should we start?”

  Graeme leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching her, a faint smile on his lips. Her eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm; clearly, Abigail was a woman who enjoyed a hunt.

  How had he not noticed ten years ago the way her eyes lit up? Or how kissable her plump lips were, how lustrous her thick black hair. Could she have changed this much over the years? Had she hidden her emotions before? Her wit? Or had he simply been blinded by his rage? His love for Laura?

  Graeme shifted uneasily. He didn’t want to think about that. Or about the fact that this time would pass, and things would return to normalcy. It was easier, better, to simply enjoy the moment. He had liked other women through the years, enjoyed their company, taken his pleasure with them. But none had ever filled up his life as Abby did. Suddenly she was everywhere—in his bed, in his house, in his thoughts.

  She excited him, intrigued him. Being with her was like watching a storm approach—wind whipping at him, dark clouds rolling, electricity crackling in the air—stirred by it all even though one knew it wasn’t safe.

  It wasn’t just the passion, though God knew tha
t was more bone-deep thrilling than it had been with any other woman. That was part of it, but there was something more that tugged at him. He had tried to analyze it, but, as now, whenever he began to think about Abby, his thoughts devolved into maneuvering to catch her in some deserted hallway or pull her into an alcove and steal a kiss. Better yet, whisking her upstairs to his bed in the middle of the afternoon, as he had the other day.

  “Graeme?”

  He straightened, realizing that she had asked him something and was waiting for a response. He cast his mind back. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure. When I came into the title, I went through everything here. I don’t remember anything about the soldiers’ fund. Father ended it after he replaced the money; that was a few years before his death. Perhaps he had discarded the papers by then or packed them away.”

  He took a key from the top drawer of the desk and unlocked a cabinet. “This is where I keep the account books. It’s possible there’s one for that fund still on the bottom shelf.”

  Abby squatted down and began pulling out the logs and peering at the dates. He noticed that she had worn a different sort of dress today, with fewer petticoats and no bustle. More practical attire for stooping and bending and searching through shelves and drawers. Also, he reflected cheerfully, much easier to remove.

  He went down on one knee beside her and joined in the search. Unsurprisingly, while there were a few account books dating back more than ten years, there were none pertaining to the Fund for Invalid Soldiers. They moved on to another cabinet, this one made up of a number of shallow drawers, a letter of the alphabet on each.

  “I’m certain these are all mine,” Graeme said, though he opened each one anyway and riffled through the letters laid flat inside.

  Abby turned her attention to the bookshelves. When Graeme finished the letters and turned to her, he found that she was watching him. He felt faintly embarrassed yet also pleased, with a snaking thread of desire running through it all. He thought of taking her into his arms, but the door of the study stood open. He crossed his arms and tried to be sensible.