“Are we finished talking?” she asked doubtfully.
“Oh, I think so.”
“And we’ll marry?”
“Perhaps.”
She elbowed him. “Will you or will you not marry me?”
It was time to throw caution to the wind. They could have separate beds. If necessary, he could get Robertson to tie him up and gag him every night.
After he’d shown Louisa how much he loved her, of course.
“I’m not sure. I think I need a kiss to decide me. Or two. One may not be enough.”
“You don’t know the power of my kisses.” There was a martial gleam in her dark eyes.
“Oh, I think I do,” Charles said softly. “But perhaps you should remind me.”
Louisa gave him an arch look. “Captain Cooper, I believe you’re trying to trick me.”
“Are you trickable?”
“When it comes to you, yes.”
“Excellent.” He shimmied up the pillows, feeling only a little light-headed. Her lips brushed too shyly against his, as if she thought he might break. Someday he would be fully in possession of all his strength, but considering everything he’d gone through in the past few days, he wasn’t doing too badly.
For one thing, he had the sense to let Louisa control the kiss, to see where she’d go with her newfound power over him. Not quite far enough, but he wouldn’t complain, couldn’t anyway with Louisa’s tongue wrapped pertly around his. Her hands were on his shoulders and Charles wished she’d become a bit more creative with them.
His pajama top had been removed and he felt the warmth of her palms and the slight quiver of her fingertips. Go exploring, he said silently. I won’t mind. I need this. I need you.
He quivered himself when she somehow knew to circle his nipples, her fingers matching the swirl of her tongue in his mouth. It was like a dance only she knew the steps to, and Charles relaxed into her lead. Dancing was something that had never been taught to him in his father’s factory cottage, but an officer had to learn to be good company. Nothing had ever prepared him for Louisa Stratton, however.
He sat as still as he could as her hands moved lower, tangling with the pajama pants he still seemed to be wearing. She paused over the buttons, twisted one, then stopped kissing him.
“Will you tell me now?” she asked, breathless.
“Tell you what?” Charles had almost forgotten there was a point to this seduction.
“You are a very vexing man.”
“Maybe you haven’t been convincing enough for me to spill my secrets. Remember, I’ve been trained not to break under torture.”
Although he’d tortured himself long enough.
“I have not yet begun to torture you, Charles Cooper.”
“You sound positively savage. I am terrified, Miss Stratton.” And delighted to see what she’d do next.
What came after the kisses wiped any worry from Charles’s mind, at least temporarily. She found all the buttons and took him in her mouth and with utter selflessness brought him to the most exquisite agony. A man couldn’t think of practical matters under the circumstances. He wouldn’t waste a minute in doubt under Louisa’s spell.
This woman loved him and was proving just how much. If he’d ever felt unworthy of her before, he was aware now he was as base as base could be and wouldn’t have it any other way. Charles belonged to Louisa as he never had to another—she could do precisely what she wished because it seemed their goals were mutual.
Lucky stars. Lucky man. Things might even be too good. Charles was superstitious, as were many soldiers. When the stars aligned so perfectly, they were bound to shower down on one’s head and knock one unconscious.
He’d already spent some time tonight in that state. It was getting to be habitual at Rosemont. He wanted to be aware of every lush lick, to encapsulate this precious moment in time so this Louisa would be present in his dreams as well as beside him in life.
Louisa was to become his wife—again—once they could figure out how to accomplish the thing. Charles wondered if they could get someone to marry them aboard the ship that would bring them to New York—not the captain, for he had no authority to marry anyone despite the popular misconception. Maybe there’d be a parson on his way to minister to the wild frontier.
Oh, those damn practical matters when Louisa’s warm mouth was all that mattered. He and Louisa were unlikely partners, but for the first time in years, Charles felt whole. Human. And he had his heiress to thank for the rest of his life.
Chapter
39
“I fixed everything myself, Miss Louisa, so you don’t have to worry. It’s just toast and tea. Took the bread and butter right from the servants’ table since nobody croaked at breakfast. Cook wanted to do up something proper for you, but I wouldn’t let her. I think you’ll have to mend some fences there—I left her in tears, talking about quitting and going where they didn’t think she was a murderess. Even Mrs. Lang stuck her long nose in—says she has a jar of jelly that’s ideal for invalids. I told them both we’d be taking care of ourselves from now on until Mrs. Evensong’s meeting.”
Their “invitation” to it had been on the breakfast tray. Eleven o’clock in the drawing room.
“What’s the old bird up to this morning?” Charles asked, crunching into a slice of dry toast. He and Louisa had not slept much, and his stomach was unsettled.
But there had been no dreams, and that was the important thing.
“Like a regular Scotland Yard inspector she is. She has a way about her—she was down in the servants’ hall at dawn even if she was up most of the night chatting up the staff in the most natural way. Even old Griffith poured his heart out. He’s very loyal to you, Miss Louisa, and upset that someone is causing all this trouble on his watch. Do you want me to stay to help you dress?”
“I’ll do the honors, Kathleen,” Charles said, dismissing the maid. “Let’s go down in a blaze of glory, Lulu. Wear all your diamonds in the daytime. I’ll make sure old Max looks sharp, too.”
“You’re right, of course. It’s so annoying when you’re right.”
“I’ve only been right since I met you. You’ve been the making of me.”
Louisa gave him a wobbly smile. “You’re sweet to say so.”
“I’m just telling the truth.” She looked so tired. Nervous. The stress of the past few days was taking its toll, and she’d disappeared early this morning without telling him where she was going. Charles couldn’t wait to get her out of here.
If she wanted to go.
He poured her a cup of tea. “Will I still be blind? I have a hankering to knock a few more of Grace’s atrocities over.”
“Behave yourself.”
“Impossible. You inspire me to misbehave.”
There. He’d earned a smile from her.
“I think your performance last night produced the necessary results. Just be normal.”
Ha. He’d seen himself in the mirror this morning and wondered how Louisa could look at him without shrieking. He’d put the sticking plaster back on to cover the wound and his eye patch was fastened securely, but he looked nowhere close to normal. Lambkin had not been gentle.
The drawing room was not crowded once they arrived. The staff was represented by Griffith and Mrs. Lang standing at attention. Grace sat in her usual gilt chair, with Dr. Fentress beside her. Hugh was present, as was Mr. Baxter.
“Excellent. You’re all here,” Mrs. Evensong said.
“I fail to see what authority you have to call a meeting here in my home. My niece’s home,” Grace amended. “You are just a guest.”
“I invited Mrs. Evensong to come, Aunt Grace. I’m sure whatever she has to say is important.”
“Humph. Well, get on with it.”
“Calm yourself, Grace, dear,” Dr. Fentress said. “You know your constitution
is not strong.”
Charles kept his own humph from escaping. Grace Westlake was a bejeweled battle-axe who would outlast them all.
“Miss Stratton—that is, Mrs. Norwich—has employed me to look into some discrepancies at her financial institution,” Mrs. Evensong began.
“Our bank?” Grace said, her outrage visible. “Stratton and Son has an impeccable history of service.”
“We’ll get to that later,” Mrs. Evensong said. “At present, I wish to discuss the odd occurrences that have plagued Mr. and Mrs. Norwich since they arrived at Rosemont last week. Mr. Norwich, if you would be good enough to observe something?”
Charles nodded.
“I thought he was blind,” Mrs. Lang said with some confusion.
“I’m slightly improved today, no thanks to my attacker.” His vision had increased a little, enough to make him think he’d be back to his old self eventually. His “old self” was not perfect, but he was used to his limitations by now. “They say one’s other senses become more acute when one cannot see, Mrs. Lang. I’ll be happy to help.”
Mrs. Evensong reached for Mrs. Lang’s hand, and Louisa gave him a little push forward. The housekeeper’s hand trembled under the inspection. It was immaculate, save for a fleck of dirt under a split thumbnail.
“Potting soil, I believe.”
“Yes. I helped the maids clean the conservatory.”
“That seems only fair, as you caused the mess. And there is still the faintest scent of gunpowder, even after all the scrubbing I imagine you did. Do you agree, Mr. Norwich? You’ve had experience with firearms.”
Charles inhaled, but his nose was not as keen as Mrs. Evensong’s. He pretended to agree. “Gunpowder. Definitely.”
Mrs. Lang stiffened. “How absurd.”
“Is it? I wonder,” Mrs. Evensong said thoughtfully. “When you returned from your mother’s funeral, you heard all about how Mrs. Norwich’s new husband had threatened to toss out the Westlakes. You didn’t like that—you’ve been here since Grace Westlake was a little girl here. You’re fond of her, and young Hugh, too. You also heard that Mr. Norwich had been attacked twice—it was all the talk of the servants’ hall.
“There was already mischief afoot,” Louisa piped up. “So when you welcomed us home the next morning, you slipped some bad mushrooms onto the breakfast tray when you brought it up. You know I don’t eat mushrooms. I imagine it was more out of spite than any true desire to cause serious harm. Just to warn my husband off. Make his stay at Rosemont uncomfortable so he’d persuade me to return to the Continent and you could keep the status quo.”
Charles watched as the color leached from Mrs. Lang’s face. “You also tampered with the smallclothes in his drawer, not knowing that the gentleman”—and here Mrs. Evensong blushed rather prettily for an old lady—“declined to wear them on most occasions. All those little creepy-crawly things died, actually because you’ve trained your staff so well to line and powder the drawers against insects. So when Mr. Norwich didn’t break out in welts or twitch himself around like he had Saint Vitus Dance, you upped the ante considerably.
“Grace Westlake and Mr. Griffith are the only ones besides yourself that have the keys to the gun room. Mrs. Westlake was upstairs dressing at the time of the shooting, with both her maid and secretary present as witnesses. Mr. Griffith was supervising the setting of the table.”
“Anyone could pick a lock,” Hugh interrupted. “Even me, although I swear I didn’t do anything.”
“No. I know where you were, Mr. Westlake. Mr. Baxter can vouch for you. I’ve accounted for all of the residents and staff at the hour in question. But no one can place Mrs. Lang anywhere in the house. May I finish?” She gave Hugh a quelling look.
“Mrs. Lang, you went into that room, took a revolver, and shot at Mr. Norwich when he was walking in the garden with his wife. I believe you aimed to miss, but you were unlucky there. Or should I say Mr. Norwich was, poor man. When the gargoyle shattered, a fragment hit Mr. Norwich in the temple.”
Mrs. Lang’s lips were white but unmoving. It did not look like she was about to confess anytime soon.
“And then you made a serious mistake,” Louisa said, stepping forward. “You took the gun back to your quarters.” She pulled a revolver from her dress pocket and the housekeeper flinched.
A gun. In Louisa’s pocket. Somehow Charles was not surprised. And it looked damned familiar—he’d had the selfsame gun for a decade. What in hell?
“I didn’t! I put it right back—” Mrs. Lang realized what she had said, and collapsed into a chair that Charles was quick enough to get under her.
“My goodness,” he said to no one in particular. “I guess I can see again.”
“The destruction in the conservatory in the night was simple malice, born out of your frustration. Since your attempts at removing Mr. Norwich had gone awry—in fact had injured him so severely he was unfit to travel—you ruined the one thing you knew meant something to Mrs. Norwich. Petty, Mrs. Lang, very petty.” Mrs. Evensong adjusted her smoky spectacles and turned to Hugh Westlake.
“As for the difficulty with Mrs. Norwich’s bank account, Mr. Baxter and I went over the books with a fine-toothed comb on Saturday. When confronted on Sunday, Hugh Westlake admitted he manipulated the balance in order to bring Mrs. Norwich home for Christmas. She hadn’t answered any letters, and then she married a stranger so abruptly. Grace Westlake was beside herself with anxiety, so much so she stopped eating and took to her bed. Hugh claims he fudged the figures to bring peace of mind to his mother, and I guess we should take him at his word.” Mrs. Evensong did not sound entirely convinced.
“So, there you have it. A loyal servant run amok. A loyal son who took advantage of his position at the family bank to please his mother.”
“You are a wonder, Mrs. Evensong,” Charles said. She had ferreted all this out after less than twenty-four hours at Rosemont, and Louisa had helped. His “wife” was now training the revolver on Hugh and Charles hoped it wasn’t loaded.
“Am I f-fired?” Mrs. Lang stammered.
“Yes,” Louisa said.
“No,” countered Charles. “It doesn’t really matter what happens here. My wife and I are going to America.”
Louisa blinked. “We are?”
“We are,” Charles said firmly. He took the gun from her and handed it to Mrs. Evensong, who dropped it into her capacious black reticule without a qualm. Charles would get it back later. He’d made up his mind as he shaved this morning, remembering Louisa’s words. She would never be happy at Rosemont—it simply held too many unpleasant memories. Perhaps once they had a family, they’d visit and make new memories. But now, Louisa deserved a place of her own.
“A friend of mine has purchased an automobile company and he wants me to oversee his New York operation. I expect that there’s an opportunity there for you, my darling. We can have adjoining desks. You know much more about cars and society people than I do and will be invaluable. I can see the advertisements in the glossy magazines now, a photograph of you bundled in your white fur coat—no, a good cloth coat—behind the wheel. You’ll be an inspiration to Gibson Girls everywhere.” He grinned at Mrs. Evensong.
“You are offering my niece a job?” Charles heard Grace’s horror, but Louisa looked thrilled.
“I can test-drive the new models?”
“Once Robertson deems them safe enough. We can bring him and Kathleen with us if they want to come. He’s an excellent mechanic, you know. A bit of an inventor himself.”
“You’re being awfully high-handed, Charles. I mean Max,” Louisa said quickly. No one seemed to notice her mistake. “What if I don’t want to go? You said you wouldn’t order me about in this marriage.”
“You can stay here if you want to, Louisa. But I’m counting on you coming with me to begin a new life. Our own life. Something we make together, without interference
from family or society’s rules. Somewhere where we’ll be on a more equal footing—you know America is more democratic.”
Louisa looked at Grace, her tongue disappearing from its thinking corner. “You really wanted me to come home?”
Grace’s fair skin mottled. “I was worried about you, you foolish girl. I always have been. You haven’t a brain in your head—look who you’ve married! A foreign adventurer who wants to drag you off to America and work in some office and put you in the newspapers!” She shuddered.
“I work in an office, Mama,” Hugh interjected.
“But in the family bank! And only part-time. That’s perfectly respectable. It was good enough for my father, after all.”
“You care about me,” Louisa said, her voice tentative.
“Of course I do! I’ve spent my whole life trying to mold you, for all the good it’s done us both. I hoped to raise you as a proper wife for Hugh. He’s loved you since he was a little boy—why, I haven’t a clue. You are a sad disappointment, but then you always have been.”
Charles kept his clenched fist to his side. It wouldn’t do to hit a woman. Grace Westlake thought she’d done her best. Perhaps she had, within the limits of her abilities. He glanced at Hugh, whose cheeks matched his mother’s. The man said nothing to deny his affection for Louisa.
Could it be true, that both the Westlakes cared for her in their own peculiar, awful way? Families were odd—he knew that from personal experience. His brothers had beaten the stuffing out of him, yet when he was at his lowest, he wanted to leave them an inheritance that would smooth their futures.
“I think I have to sit down,” Louisa said.
“Right here, dear.” Mary Evensong moved to the sofa and patted the cushion.
Louisa tumbled down next to her, a blank look on her pale face. It was a lot to take in—to discover she was loved, no matter how inexpertly, by people she thought hated her, to be offered a future in a strange country by a man she barely knew. No, that wasn’t true—she and Charles had been forged together in fire this past week. She had seen his delirium and blood and vomit and stupidity and hadn’t flinched, or not flinched much, anyway. They could make this work, given half a chance.
In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL) Page 29