by Candace Camp
Myles remained unusually quiet throughout the meal, but Genevieve took up the slack, chatting away about her grandmother’s plans to marshal her forces over the next few days, calling on all her old friends and decrying the horrible wrong that had been done to “poor Genevieve.”
“I am so relieved that she feels I should not make calls just yet. It will give us plenty of time to keep watch over that newspaper. And this afternoon, I am going by the linen drapers to pick up some lawn and lace to have some nightshirts and chemises made. I scarcely had time to buy a trousseau before our wedding, you know.”
A glazed look came into Myles’s eyes, which Genevieve pretended not to notice, just as she made no comment when her leg accidentally brushed his beneath the small table, although she did have to look down to hide a little smile when he shifted restlessly in his chair for the third time that morning. Taking a final sip of her tea, she popped up and came around the table to lean down and kiss his temple lightly.
“Pray excuse me. I must run and dress so that we can go to The Onlooker.” She paused and turned back at the door. “I quite like this room, don’t you? I think we should breakfast here every morning. So much more . . . intimate.”
Genevieve continued her bombardment of Myles’s defenses when they rode to the shop where The Onlooker was printed. In the close confines of the carriage, it was difficult for Myles to avoid looking at her, and the scent of her perfume subtly twined around him.
When the carriage came to a stop, Genevieve leaned across him to look out the window. “Which one is it?”
“That one with the gray door.” Myles edged closer to the wall of the carriage. “You can see they have the sheets posted on the window.”
“Oh, yes, I see it.” Genevieve casually put her hand on his thigh to balance herself. She felt his leg twitch beneath her hand, and a moment later he moved to the opposite side of the vehicle, leaving her the seat for herself. “You needn’t leave, Myles. There is plenty of room here.” She smiled at him, casually twining a lock of her hair around her finger.
“I am fine here,” he responded somewhat grimly. “I know how much you like to be alone.”
“Not always.” Genevieve gave him a long, slow smile before she turned away to watch the door across the street.
They stayed until close to noon, but no one they recognized came in or out. Finally Myles, who had been fidgeting on his seat off and on throughout their stay and had even once gotten out to take a brief walk, said, “I fear we are accomplishing little here. We might as well leave.”
“No doubt you’re right,” Genevieve replied agreeably. “Perhaps we’ll see something tomorrow.”
“Genevieve . . . I think this is a futile effort.”
“Still, we should give it a few more times. We’ve little else to go on. Do say you will come again.”
With something close to a groan, Myles nodded. “Yes, very well. We shall come again tomorrow.”
For the rest of the week, Genevieve and Myles kept watch on the newspaper’s office. A few people went in and out, but no one of any interest appeared, and while the close confines of the carriage provided a wealth of opportunities to seduce Myles, Genevieve was beginning to think that she was tempting herself more than her husband.
She had altered her clothes and had new seductive undergarments made. But seductive nightgowns and chemises were useless if Myles never saw her in them. She had flirted with Myles shamelessly at every meal, letting no opportunity pass to lean in close or touch his arm or straighten his lapel. But though his skin might heat or his nostrils might flare at the scent of her perfume, he did not sweep her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom.
The man seemed to have a will of iron. Or perhaps—lowering thought—she simply did not appeal enough to him to lure him from his purpose. Worse, her conduct seemed to have caused Myles to avoid spending time at home. He bolted to his club every morning and did not return until it was time to dress for supper, leaving Genevieve with far too much time to idle about the house alone. She recognized the irony that she, so intent on having a bedroom where she could be alone, now had the entire house to herself—and was miserable with it.
Late one afternoon, Genevieve drifted down the stairs, restless and bored. Myles was at his club, of course, and she had several hours to pass before the Dumbarton soiree, a social occasion so dull and sparsely attended that Genevieve’s grandmother had declared that Genevieve could go to it without stirring up controversy.
Boredom finally caused her to go in search of a book to pass the time, but as she started down the hall toward the library, her attention was caught by the sound of raised voices at the rear of the house. She turned back down the hall, and as she neared the butler’s pantry, she saw Bouldin in a heated conversation with a dour-looking, whipcord-thin man. The stranger was dressed in gentleman’s clothing, but he had a look about him that spoke of neither servant nor gentleman.
“Bouldin?” Genevieve said.
“My lady!” Bouldin pivoted toward her, his usually expressionless face filled with chagrin. “I beg your pardon. I told this fellow that Sir Myles was not at home, but he was most insistent. I suggested he leave a note for him.”
“Haven’t got a note with me, now do I?” the other man sneered. “And I know Thorwood will want to hear what I have to say, soon as possible.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what you have to say, and I will inform my husband,” Genevieve suggested crisply. When the man stared at her suspiciously, she added, “You might start by telling me your name.”
“It’s Parker, ma’am. I was doing some work for your husband.”
“Parker!” Genevieve straightened. That was the name of the Bow Street runner Myles had employed. “Why don’t you come into Sir Myles’s study and tell me your news? You are right; he will wish to hear it straightaway.” As the man followed her down the hallway to the study, Genevieve added, “I believe you are acquainted with my brother, as well. Lord Rawdon.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve done a bit of work for him; he’s a fine gentleman.”
“I agree.” Genevieve sat down behind Myles’s desk and gestured toward Parker to take a seat across from her. “Now, do you have word of Mr. Langdon?”
As she had hoped, the mention of her brother and her knowledge of Myles’s business had put the runner’s mind at ease, for he said now, “I have Langdon himself.”
“What? Here? In London?”
“Yes, ma’am. I found him in Bath. Took me a bit of time ’cause I went to Brighton first, but when I couldn’t find him there, I tried Bath and there he was in the pump room, talking flummery to a couple of old ladies. I reckoned he’d be gone by the time I got word to you, and since Sir Myles wanted to question him, I thought I might as well bring him with me.”
“How very efficient of you.” She could understand why her brother relied on the man. “Where is Mr. Langdon now?”
“In a mews not far from here. My cousin is head groom and he let me use a spare tack room. Won’t nobody notice him.”
“Good. I want you to take me to him.”
Parker shifted in his seat uneasily. “Now, ma’am, I don’t know as I ought to do that. Sir Myles might not like it.”
“I see little difference between a mews in London and the stables at Castle Cleyre, which I have been in any number of times. Is your cousin likely to accost me? Or allow his men to?”
“No!” Parker exclaimed indignantly.
“I assume the mews belongs to a respectable household.”
“Yes, of course, it’s not far from here. It’s just . . . well, if some harm should come to you . . .”
“You will be there to protect me from Mr. Langdon, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And I assume you must have him tied up or secured in some way or else he would escape.” Parker nodded. “Very well. I cannot see how I could possibly come to harm. I shall send a note round to my husband to meet us there, if you will but give me the address.�
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She pulled a piece of notepaper from Myles’s desk and picked up a pen to write, and Parker gave in, telling her the address. Genevieve made short work of the note, giving Myles the news tersely, then rang for a footman, instructing him to track down Myles at his club.
“If he is not there, then you must hunt him down,” she added. “Now.” She turned to Parker. “Take me to Mr. Langdon.”
“Myles? Are you listening?”
“What?” Myles looked over Gabriel blankly. “Oh. I beg your pardon. No.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, and Myles sighed. “Devil take it. I fear I am no fit company today.”
“Today?” Gabriel asked, amusement bubbling in his voice. “My dear fellow, you have not been fit company for the better part of a week. Nay, longer than that—since you returned to London.”
It was true. Myles was distracted and fuzzy-headed, irritable and jumpy, prone to snap at everyone. It had reached the point where no one was willing to spar with him anymore. He caught the look of sympathy in Gabriel’s eyes and had to bite his tongue to keep from growling at him. He knew what Gabriel thought—that Myles was regretting his hasty marriage, that Genevieve was so shrewish and cold she was making him miserable, and Myles wanted to lash out at his friend for misjudging Genevieve.
Of course, he reminded himself gloomily, it was Genevieve’s fault . . . not that he could explain that to his friends. The bloody woman had declared war on him. There was no other word for it. For the past few days, she had seized every opportunity possible to tease and torment his senses. He was beginning to think that she hoped to drive him mad.
At the breakfast table, he found himself mesmerized, watching her bite into her toast, her teeth sinking into the golden-brown bread, and when she paused to lick a bit of marmalade from her fingers, it was all he could do not to grab her wrist and pull her over into his lap. She had made it even more unbearable by enclosing the two of them in that little breakfast room, without even a servant to distract them. But his torment extended far beyond meals. Whenever he was around her, her lavender perfume teased at his nostrils. He was aware of every movement she made, each rustle of her clothes. If he sat at a desk, she would lean down to talk to him, bracing her arm on the desk, so that he had a perfect view of her firm breasts. She had come down to the library last night to look for a book, wearing nothing but her nightgown. She had stood there, the lamplight behind her, outlining her body, and he had thought he would choke with lust for her.
Suddenly her clothes all seemed . . . barer. Her dresses fell more softly about her body, as though she wore fewer petticoats beneath them. The tiny cap sleeves barely covered her shoulders, and if she threw a light shawl around her, it soon slipped lower, exposing her arms bit by bit, until he could not tear his eyes away from its progress. The luscious curve of her breasts swelled provocatively above the neckline. It was nothing more, of course, than what one saw on practically every other woman of the ton, and it was, indeed, a lovely sight.
Unless, of course, one was determined not to seek out her bed. Then it was ten kinds of hell.
It was his own fault for starting the whole thing. At the time, it had seemed a good idea, the perfect way to lure Genevieve into admitting her feelings for him. He wanted her to agree that theirs was no pale, bloodless relationship, no courteous union where each enjoyed one’s bed partner now and then and the rest of the time went one’s separate way. If he was being perfectly honest, he would admit that his pride—and perhaps more than that—had been hurt when she had declared she could easily forgo his bed. Surely there was nothing wrong with wanting one’s wife to actually be his wife. To be one with him.
He had known that his efforts to tempt her would push his own desire to the limits, but he had not been prepared for how deeply his hunger for her would gnaw at him. Nor had he foreseen that Genevieve, rather than quickly yielding, would turn the tables on him, stoking his fires with temptations of her own. It was becoming more and more difficult to remember what his original goal was. As the tension had built up explosively inside him, he could no longer maintain the importance of his position. All that kept him on his course, he suspected, was sheer bloody-mindedness.
Unfortunately, Genevieve possessed the same trait in equal measure. Perhaps more. The Staffords had, he recalled broodingly, always had been a remorseless lot.
“Sir Myles.”
He glanced up from his reverie and was startled to find one of his own footmen standing hesitantly behind the club’s servant. Myles jumped to his feet, his pulse speeding up and his mind going immediately to Genevieve.
“Yes? What is it, Beck?”
“Lady Thorwood, sir.” The man extended the note toward him, and Myles grabbed it, breaking the seal. He read it, his eyebrows soaring, and let out an oath, then ran through it once again. The words did not improve on a second reading.
“The devil take it!”
“Myles? Is everything all right?” Gabriel asked, rising to his feet. “Can I assist you in some way?”
“No, everything is most definitely not all right.” Myles crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket. “Thank you for your offer, but I will take care of this myself.” Turning, he strode rapidly away.
Twenty-two
Well, Mr. Langdon.” Genevieve looked down at the man sitting on the narrow cot. His thinning, sandy hair hung limply across his head, and he sported a day’s growth of beard. He wore no jacket, only an open waistcoat over his shirt, which was stained and rather the worse for wear. A manacle secured his ankle to the bedpost. “This is certainly a sorry sight.”
“My lady!” He sprang up from his seat, wiping ineffectually at his hair. “Thank goodness you are here! You must tell this madman to let me go.”
“Must I?” Genevieve gazed at him levelly. “I think you are hardly in a position to demand anything.”
“But you know I did nothing to you,” he protested. “This fellow says Sir Myles thinks I harmed you. But you know that isn’t true. I have nothing but the greatest respect and admiration for you. Perhaps my zeal exceeded my sense of propriety.” He paused in the midst of his grandiloquence and added more mundanely, “Is it true that you have married Thorwood?”
“Yes. I did. And he is not happy with you.”
“I did not realize that you and Thorwood—that is, it was clear you and Dursbury were no love match. Else why would you turn to me? But I did not know Sir Myles had stolen a march on me.” His voice died as he looked at Genevieve’s stony face. He cleared his throat. “That is, um, well, in any case, you will help me, won’t you? You will tell Thorwood that I never meant any harm?”
“No harm? What else did you think would happen when you lured me into the library?”
“Lured you!” He gaped at her. “My lady! Surely you cannot mean to deny that you asked me to meet you. How was I to know what would happen?” He gazed at her in righteous indignation. “I cannot help it if your fiancé followed you. When a beautiful woman seeks one out, ’tis difficult to deny her.”
“You have the audacity to say I asked you? That I told you to meet me in the library?” Genevieve’s temper ratcheted up several notches.
“But you did! Please, I know no lady likes to admit to making an assignation, but you cannot condemn me so unfairly.”
“Mr. Langdon. I never asked you to meet me anywhere at any time, and only a fool would believe that I had. Myles has a good deal more sense than Lord Dursbury; he will not believe the worst of me. I had meant to ask my husband to be lenient with you, but if you intend to blacken my character . . .”
“I will say whatever you wish!” he assured her. “Just tell this chap to let me out of this dreadful manacle. It is excessively cumbersome. I shall leave immediately. I will go—”
At that moment, the door to the tack room slammed open and Myles walked in. “The devil! Genevieve, what in the world possessed you to come here?” He glared first at her, then at Parker, and finally his gaze fell on Langdon. His face tightened, and he started toward
him.
“No! Myles, wait.” Genevieve stepped in front of him as Langdon scrambled as far away as the manacle and chain would allow. “Don’t be hasty. Mr. Langdon was about to tell me about that party.” She turned toward the other man. “I won’t let Myles hurt you, if you will only tell us the truth. Without any sort of embellishment.”
“I did tell you the truth!” Langdon said in an aggrieved tone. “You sent me a note.” He twitched when Myles made a low growling noise, and Langdon cast Genevieve an imploring glance. “Lady Genevieve . . .”
“Myles, please.” Genevieve held his gaze until he sighed and stepped back, crossing his arms.
“Very well. Tell us your tale.”
“It’s not a tale.” Langdon turned his gaze back to Genevieve. “You asked me to meet you in the library. I was most astonished, I’ll admit, for I never could see that you had the slightest interest in me.”
“I didn’t,” Genevieve replied bluntly. “Nor did I send you a note.”
“But, my lady, you did!”
“What did it say?” Genevieve asked.
“I don’t remember!” His voice rose querulously. “I was foxed! Drunk as a wheelbarrow. You wrote, ‘I must see you,’ or some such thing and put the time and the place. So I went directly to the library. I think I fell asleep.” He frowned. “Because I woke up and there you were. I had thought perhaps it was a joke, you see. But then you appeared. Like an angel, as it were.” He sighed. “Of course, it all fell apart.”
“Mr. Langdon, do you swear that you did not send me a note telling me to meet you in the library?”
“Send you a note?” He looked perplexed. “No. Don’t you understand? You sent me a note, not the other way around.”
Genevieve turned to Myles. He set his jaw.
“Langdon.” Myles strode forward and jerked the man up by the front of his shirt, his face more coldly furious than Genevieve had ever seen it. “If I were to hold a knife to your throat, would you tell me the same story?”