A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin)

by Anna Campbell

  Sir Richard Harmsworth…

  Was Mr. Evans’s arrival part of a campaign to retrieve the jewel? With a nasty start, she remembered Mr. Evans offering to buy the jewel. Did he want it for himself or for Sir Richard?

  If Mr. Evans worked for Sir Richard, why hadn’t he pocketed the jewel when he broke in? He must have noticed it. After these last days, she was convinced that his deceptively lazy gaze missed little. Even if he’d overlooked it that night, she, gullible idiot she was, had placed it in his hand yesterday.

  And how on earth did Sedgemoor fit into the puzzle? He’d introduced Mr. Evans to the district as an old friend. Was the duke part of the plot? If so, why?

  She sighed with frustration and impatiently shoved aside the half-written page lying on the blotter. So many questions. And no answers that made a jot of sense.

  From now on, she’d carry the jewel on her. And one thing above all—no more kisses. Ever.

  However necessary that decision was, it made her want to howl. Because the secret she’d take to the grave was that she’d loved Mr. Evans’s kisses. However much she might want to skin him with the butter knife now, she’d never felt so alive as she had in that sneaking liar’s arms.

  “Ah, here you are. Your father is asking for you.”

  She was so focused on the duplicitous Mr. Evans, she needed a moment to realize that the man in the doorway was Neville Fairbrother.

  “My lord.” She was surprised to see him. He’d never ventured upstairs before. “You didn’t need to fetch me.”

  Despite the lukewarm welcome, he approached. “I’ve always wondered where you disappeared each day.”

  Genevieve couldn’t help contrasting his graceless trudge to Mr. Evans’s tigerish prowl. Mr. Evans’s every move proclaimed him a rake. So what did Lord Neville’s gait say? That he asserted rights over everything and everyone in the vicarage?

  As if to confirm that unpleasant thought, Lord Neville lifted the Harmsworth Jewel from the desk. She stifled the urge to snatch it back. Lord Neville’s acquisitive streak was well known to her. Her father, taking advantage of Genevieve’s expertise, had sourced many objets d’art for his collection.

  “Good God, what is this?” Lord Neville twirled the jewel, setting the dragon’s ruby eyes sparkling in the light flooding through the windows. “Is it twelfth century?”

  She had even less desire to confide in Lord Neville than in Mr. Evans. Odd, when Lord Neville was her family’s benefactor, and Mr. Evans was here under false pretenses.

  “It’s the Harmsworth Jewel.” To her educated eye, the relic’s design belonged to an earlier period, but she’d long ago learned that Lord Neville pretended more expertise than he possessed. “The family legend is that Alfred the Great presented it to an ancestor.”

  Lord Neville’s hand fisted. Genevieve bit back a demand to take care. “Ninth century, then. What on earth is it doing here? And why hasn’t your father offered it to me?”

  Because I knew you’d want it the moment you saw it.

  “It’s mine,” she said stiffly. “I inherited it from a friend.”

  “The Harmsworths have become lamentably rackety. The current baronet is reputedly a stablehand’s bastard.”

  “I didn’t know you followed gossip, Lord Neville.”

  He shrugged, not shifting his attention from the jewel. Her fingers curled against the leather blotter. She burned to lunge across the desk and pry the artifact from his grip. “I don’t, of course. I focus on higher things. But the scandal has been the talk of the town for years.”

  Lord Neville’s sneering tone made her range herself on Sir Richard’s side, whatever his schemes. How horrible to have everyone sniggering over something he couldn’t help.

  “Can I please have the jewel back?” She rose behind her desk. “I’m sketching it.”

  He rotated the artifact. “How much do you want for it?”

  She stared into his square face. Greed lit his eyes. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Come, dear lady, price is no object. Name a figure.”

  When Mr. Evans called her dear lady, she didn’t like it. When Lord Neville called her dear lady, she wanted to thump him with the inkwell. “Lady Bellfield left me the jewel. I will always keep it in memory of her.”

  “I’ll pay ten thousand guineas.”

  Dear Lord…

  “That’s a fortune,” she said in amazement. It was the same sum Sir Richard’s representative had offered. She’d refused double that from Mr. Evans. Perhaps she should hold an auction. She’d be set for life.

  “For something so rare, who cavils at price?”

  Her brief amusement died. The hard light in Lord Neville’s eyes made her distinctly wary. Or perhaps her nerves were on edge after cavorting in a scoundrel’s arms. She extended her hand. “Please give me the jewel. I’d hate you to damage it.”

  “I know how to handle precious objects,” he said, offended. “I’m a famous collector.”

  A famous collector who’d set his sights on her treasure. She didn’t mistake his covetousness.

  With visible reluctance, he surrendered the jewel. Genevieve resisted the impulse to whip the relic into the drawer, away from those beady eyes.

  “So you accept my offer?”

  Ten thousand guineas could change her life forever. “I told you, it’s not for sale.”

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not a matter of money.”

  “Everything’s a matter of money.” He leaned across the desk and grabbed her arm. He wasn’t hurting her, but she’d have difficulty shaking free. His touch always chilled her. “I’ll go to twenty, but that’s my final figure.”

  “My lord—”

  “Twenty thousand guineas and a promise to keep your secret.”

  Horror flooded Genevieve. Had Lord Neville seen her with Mr. Evans last night? The thought made her sick with humiliation.

  “S-secret?” she stammered, cursing the betraying fear in her voice.

  Lord Neville looked more self-satisfied than ever. Something she would have thought impossible. “Don’t play coy, my dear Miss Barrett.”

  Oh, dear God, he must have seen her at the pond. Shame kept her silent as she stared at him.

  “I know you write your father’s articles.”

  Stupid relief made her dizzy and she was almost grateful that he held her upright. Then she realized this was a disaster. Heartbreak and mockery loomed for her father if the true authorship became public. If she’d sometimes wondered whether she still loved her father despite his selfishness, the twisting fear in her belly now told her.

  “What… what nonsense.”

  Lord Neville’s laugh made her cringe. “Don’t bother denying it. I’ve known for years. If you want to convince the world that you’re nothing but a humble assistant, you should restrain your opinions at the dinner table.”

  Two people now knew the secret of her father’s work. How ironic that her father’s benefactor threatened to expose the truth, not the man she suspected was an out-and-out scoundrel.

  She mustered her courage and glared at him the way her aunt would glare at a cockroach in her spotless kitchen. “Even if it’s true, you can’t use that information to force me to part with the Harmsworth Jewel.”

  “Can’t I?” His stare turned assessing.

  “Do you stoop to blackmail, my lord?” she asked sharply.

  “Not at all.” His hold on her arm tightened to bruising. “I merely point out that it’s in your best interests to sell me the jewel. The treasure belongs in a great collection, not hidden in a drawer in a shabby vicarage.”

  Think, Genevieve, think. “If… if you reveal my father isn’t the author of the articles, as his patron you risk looking a fool, my lord.”

  She caught a flash of displeasure in his deep-set eyes. He never appreciated opposition. “Not so much of a fool as the vicar will, my dear. And after all, I have a great name to save me from becoming a laughingstock.”
>
  “Is there some trouble, Miss Barrett?”

  Mr. Evans might be a rogue, but at his question, her heart leaped with relief. He looked wonderful standing in the doorway, tall and strong. He was dressed for riding. From one leather-gloved hand, a crop dangled in unspoken threat.

  “What business is this of yours, Evans?” Lord Neville snarled.

  “None whatsoever,” Mr. Evans said mildly, sauntering into the study. He cast a pointed glance at Lord Neville’s grip on Genevieve’s arm. Under that calm blue gaze, Lord Neville retreated. Genevieve snatched a shaky breath and slumped into her chair.

  Lord Neville cast Mr. Evans a disparaging glare before he turned to Genevieve. “I can’t be easy with such a valuable artifact lying unprotected. If you trust the Harmsworth Jewel to my keeping, I’ll hold it safe until you decide on its disposal.”

  Until she decided to sell it to him, he meant. Genevieve wasn’t so green that she misunderstood. Was she wrong to deny him? Twenty thousand guineas was more money than she’d see in a lifetime. And her father’s secret would remain safe if she agreed. But every atom revolted at the idea of giving the jewel to the acquisitive lord.

  “It’s been safe until now.”

  “Not so, dear lady. What about the blackguard who broke in?”

  How she wished he’d stop calling her dear lady. Deliberately she didn’t glance at Mr. Evans. “I chased him off.”

  “Next time, you mightn’t be so lucky,” Lord Neville said.

  She stood. “I must tidy myself before I go downstairs.”

  It was a dismissal. He must know she rarely bothered with her appearance before attending her father. For a moment, she wasn’t sure that his lordship would go. But a glance at Mr. Evans seemed to convince him that right now, his plans to obtain the jewel wouldn’t thrive.

  She experienced a reluctant flash of gratitude that she hadn’t seen Mr. Evans banished as a thief. Right now, his presence provided the only barrier between her and his lordship. The ache in her arm indicated that when Lord Neville wanted something, he wasn’t always careful about how he got it.

  “We’ll discuss this issue once you’ve had time to think,” his lordship said.

  She could have told Lord Neville that he didn’t need to emphasize the threat. Grimly she was aware that the matter wouldn’t rest there. He was dogged in acquiring whatever took his fancy. And he’d taken a powerful fancy to the jewel.

  “Coming, Evans?” Lord Neville clomped toward the door.

  “I need a wash. I stink of the stables,” he said amiably, although his gaze remained watchful.

  “Indeed.” Lord Neville’s eyebrows arched at Mr. Evans’s bluntness. He cast one last glance at Genevieve. “You are in many ways naïve, Genevieve. You’d do well to heed more worldly heads.”

  Thanks to Mr. Evans and Lord Neville, she became less naïve by the moment. “I won’t change my mind, my lord.”

  “We’ll see.” He gave Mr. Evans a frosty nod as he left. “Evans.”

  Ignoring Genevieve’s forbidding manner, Mr. Evans strolled across to lean on the corner of her desk. “What did the old mackerel want?”

  “The Harmsworth Jewel.” She aimed a pointed glare at him. Men! She’d happily consign the whole sex to the Bristol Channel and dance a hornpipe as they sank beneath the waves.

  She still hadn’t absolved Mr. Evans of plotting to steal the jewel, although she couldn’t imagine why, if he wanted it, he hadn’t taken it. After all, the jewel had been in her desk drawer until this morning. A man of Mr. Evans’s initiative would make short work of the lock.

  “And you, of course.”

  She hissed with irritation and pushed her chair back against the wall. Impossible to forget that he’d seen her naked. Humiliation pricked her nerves. To think only moments ago, she’d welcomed his appearance. “Don’t be absurd.”

  He shrugged. “I suffer the same malady. I recognize it in another.”

  “I’d rather not refer to last night.”

  A faint smile flirted with his lips. He glanced down to where his long fingers played with her silver letter opener. Sliding it left and right. Up and down. “So I imagine.”

  “Then it never happened,” she said stiffly.

  Still he smiled. Still he moved the shining knife in casual patterns across the blotter. “It’s not that simple, Miss Barrett.”

  The formal address mocked. Her hands fisted at her sides. How she longed to hit him. “Of course it is. A gentleman would—”

  “You say I’m no gentleman.”

  “Nor you are.”

  He surveyed her beneath heavy eyelids, dark blue eyes brilliant with humor. And desire. Her pulses had rushed when he’d saved her from Lord Neville. They hadn’t settled since and that glittering gaze didn’t help.

  “Harsh.” His voice deepened as he balanced the paper knife on its handle. The action was inexplicably suggestive. “You left me burning, Miss Barrett. I caught nary a wink of sleep.”

  Nervously she checked the door. If Lord Neville overheard, he’d have something else to blackmail her with. “I slept like a log.”

  His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Liar.”

  “My father wants to see me.” She cursed the quiver in her voice.

  “Still running away?”

  She refused to admit it. “Good day, Mr. Evans.”

  He leaned forward and grabbed her hand in an uncompromising grip, letting the knife bounce on the blotter.

  She squeaked with shock. “This isn’t private.”

  “Does that mean we can arrange a private meeting?”

  “No, it does not.” Angrily she tugged on her hand. How she longed to denounce him as a liar and a thief, but some shred of prudence reminded her that just now, he formed her best defense against Lord Neville.

  “Pity.”

  He didn’t sound particularly cast down. Of course he didn’t. This was a game to him. If she forgot that, she was in trouble.

  Heat seeped up her arm from where he held her, reminding her that she was already in trouble. To think that not long ago she’d only worried about establishing an academic reputation separate from her father’s. Since then she’d dealt with burglars, kisses, and blackmailing, covetous noblemen. Not to mention a reluctant but immovable attraction for the rapscallion studying her as if he read every thought.

  He probably did. She had a fair idea that Mr. Christopher Evans was no novice with the ladies. “Please, let me go. If anyone sees us—”

  “Will you meet me later?”

  “No.”

  “Then I must kiss you now.”

  “No, you mustn’t,” she said crossly. Then, horror of horrors, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Terror set pulses jumping. “For pity’s sake, let me go.”

  “As you wish.” He raised her hand and kissed it. The contact was so fleeting, she should hardly remark it. Why, then, did her skin still sizzle after she snatched free?

  “Are you there, Genevieve? Dr. Mitchell has written from Glasgow with a new lead on the princes.” Her father bustled in, brandishing a letter covered in spidery writing. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Evans. I was hoping I’d find you. You’ll be interested in this.”

  His genuine pleasure at seeing his student weighted Genevieve’s heart with foreboding. He’d become fond of Mr. Evans. Hardly surprising. Mr. Evans set out to please. But what happened when their visitor’s falsehoods became known, as surely they would? However angry she was with her father, she was still his daughter. She hated to think of anyone hurting him. And right now her father was at risk from both Mr. Evans and Lord Neville.

  “Excellent, Dr. Barrett.” Mr. Evans slouched with picturesque ease against the far wall. He’d shifted without haste before her father appeared.

  Genevieve hid a sigh. The safest choice was to avoid Mr. Evans as she had during his first few days. But now she recognized him as her burglar, she needed to watch him. And while Mr. Evans was with her, Lord Neville couldn’t pressure her.

  Feeling tha
t her life whirled into chaos, she surreptitiously slipped the Harmsworth Jewel into her pinafore pocket and stood. Tonight when she was alone—no midnight swim, Mr. Evans had put paid to that pastime—she’d sew a pocket into her petticoat to hold the jewel.

  She stepped around the desk. “Shall we go downstairs, Papa? Lord Neville will wonder where you’ve got to.” Speaking Lord Neville’s name made her want to gag.

  “Of course, my dear, of course.” Her father bustled toward the door. Behind his back, Mr. Evans’s blue eyes met hers. He was remembering their kisses. Curse him, so was she.

  Chapter Ten

  Over the next two nights, the memory of Genevieve’s innocent kisses tormented Richard into sleeplessness, but his quarry had learned to be careful. Although the weather continued unseasonably hot, she didn’t sneak out again. Conscienceless—and optimistic—fellow he was, he kept his door ajar so he’d hear if she left.

  As he joined the family after dinner, he was grimly aware that he was still far from dazzling her into surrendering the jewel. There she sat across the parlor on her window seat, stitching doggedly at her grotesquerie of an embroidery. Beside her, Hecuba occupied the space that Richard wanted to claim. At the table, the vicar and Fairbrother pored over a parchment. Sirius snoozed in the corner. Mrs. Warren knitted in her usual chair.

  Fairbrother, more omnipresent than ever over the last days, noted Richard’s maneuverings toward Genevieve and rose to intervene. Until Mrs. Warren detained his lordship with a question. With ill-concealed reluctance, Fairbrother paused to reply, leaving Richard free to corner Genevieve. Mrs. Warren could teach Napoleon strategy.

  “Your peonies still bloom, Miss Barrett,” he murmured, lounging against the window frame.

  “Mr. Evans, for shame.” Her head jerked up and her cheeks turned pink. “My peonies are my business.”

  He laughed softly. How delightful. She must stew on their kisses if his remark struck her as indecent. “I merely admired your needlework.”