by Joan Smith
She brushed the hair from his forehead, noticing how much handsomer he looked when his face was relaxed. It was only his forbidding expression that robbed him of being called handsome. His brow was high and wide, what Mama called a noble brow.
She ran her fingers gently over it, feeling the small dents of incipient wrinkles. Then along his high cheekbones, and lower to the hollows of his cheeks. Strange, how you could feel the skeleton bones beneath the flesh. Eerie. She shivered, then traced his nose, a proud, aquiline nose. With one finger she drew the outline of his lips. Nice full lips, when he wasn’t pinching them in derision.
Salverton gradually regained consciousness. He thought it must be a dream, those loving fingers caressing him. He was dreaming of Esmée again. He put out his hand and seized the hand that touched him. Then he raised it to his lips and kissed it with a passion that surprised Samantha. He pressed his lips firmly against her palm and held them there a moment.
“That feels good,” he murmured in a voice as soft as velvet. Not Salverton’s voice at all, but a lover’s voice.
Samantha was aware of a strange warmth building inside her as his fingers squeezed hers so intimately. Then she felt exceedingly foolish, as if she’d chanced across her cousin in a state of undress. She cleared her throat.
“It’s Samantha, Edward,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Are you awake now?”
His head jerked up as if he’d been prodded with a hot poker. She pushed it gently back to her lap.
“It’s all right. I know you thought it was Lady Louise. I hope you’re not feeling too badly?”
“I didn’t think you were Louise. I thought you were—” He rubbed his temples.
“Who? Who did you think I was?” she asked.
“Never mind.”
“I shan’t tell Louise.”
“You won’t be meeting her!”
“That’s good.”
He looked up at the face hovering above him. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight. He noticed how soft and full her cheeks were. “Why would you not want to meet Louise?” he asked.
“I’m sure I should dislike her excessively. Your voice tightens when you mention her. If you’re afraid of her, I should be terrified.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not afraid of her.” Yet he did feel a frisson to think of her learning of this escapade with Samantha. It made his head ache.
“I feel as if I’d been beaten with cudgels.” With a groan, he sat up and looked out the window. When his head stopped spinning, he said, “Where are we?”
“In your carriage, returning to Brighton.”
His face assumed its customary scowl as he turned his thoughts to their situation.
“What the devil were you doing there? Why didn’t you tell me? And to go with that jackanapes of a Sykes! Have you no notion of propriety?”
“I have a notion my brother’s in trouble!” she shot back. “What do I care what those people thought of me? I went alone with Mr. Sykes because I wanted to spare you,” she explained. “I knew it wasn’t the sort of place that would amuse you.”
“Nor you, I should hope!”
“On the contrary! I was delighted to see what a gaming hell is like. We don’t have them in Milford.”
“Thank God for that!”
“Oh, Edward!” she scolded. “Don’t you ever feel the urge to do something a little outré? I own I’ve been half envying Darren his escapade with Wanda. Everyone should have one such incident in her life.”
“I certainly do not feel anything of the sort.”
“Well,” she said pensively, “you did when you were young. You’ve already had your Esmée. I haven’t had anything like that. I enjoyed tonight very much. I’m sorry you were hurt, but if you hadn’t gone lording it in there like a vengeful Jehovah, demanding I go with you—”
He paused a moment over that thoughtless “when you were young.” She made him sound like Methuselah, “What was I to do?” he asked. “You refused to take my lead and pretend you were my wife.”
“As if anyone would believe that!” she scoffed.
“Do you know what kind of a place that is? A house of prostitution, along with a gaming hell. To see that old wretch ogling you as if you were a plum cake!”
“Actually, Mr. Docker was very nice.”
“I hope you didn’t give him your name!”
“Of course I did. I told him I was Miss Jones, from London. It was his first time there. He’s a traveling merchant from Suffolk. He sells cutlery. He was just lonesome. One can understand how it happened—that he went there, I mean. When I told him I wasn’t available, he was actually quite relieved! He just wanted to talk.”
Salverton shook his head in bewilderment. “I cannot comprehend how a well-raised young lady can be so foolish. Didn’t your mama teach you anything?”
“Yes, Edward. She taught me not to be judgmental.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have!”
A gurgle of laughter was her answer to that. “You are too absurd. In your high state of indignation, you’ve lost track of why I went there in the first place.”
“You’ve already told me why you went. You wanted a taste of degradation.”
“Not at all! That was an added bonus. I went to meet Amy.”
“Amy who?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Amy Bright—the chit who was rolling her eyes at you. She’s only fifteen, by the bye, so if you have designs—”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Who is she?”
“Oh, you don’t know. She’s Wanda Claridge’s daughter.”
“Good God! You mean Darren’s woman has a grown daughter! She must be old as the hills.”
“Well, I don’t think she is. When Amy’s thirty, she could have a daughter the age she is now. In any case, that’s why Jonathon took me there. He knew about Amy.”
‘Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he feel he had to take you along?”
“He said gents weren’t allowed in unaccompanied. That was a plumper, of course. Most of them came in alone. What he really wanted was to walk in with a lady on his arm, I think. He cherishes his amorous reputation. All the women there made a great fuss over him.”
“Peacock! He shouldn’t have taken you—and you shouldn’t have gone.”
Samantha twinkled a smile at him. “I knew you would feel that way, which is why I didn’t tell you I was going. If I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have discovered where Darren and Wanda are. Amy told me.”
“Where are they?” he asked eagerly.
“We’ve been led on a wild-goose chase, Cousin. They didn’t come to Brighton at all. I wager Wanda spoke of Brighton so much and had that bathing costume made up only to fool me. There’s no bathing at Tunbridge Wells, so far as I know. Amy says Sir Geoffrey has another love nest there. That’s where Wanda usually takes her young men, she said. Is it very far away?”
“Halfway between here and London.”
“Then perhaps we can stop tomorrow on our way back to London.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not 'on our way.’ It lies well to the east. And I must be in London tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She looked dejected for a moment, then brightened. “We can ask Mr. Sykes to take me.”
Salverton gave a malevolent glare. “Not bloody likely!”
Samantha stared in disbelief. “Gracious, Edward! I never thought I’d hear you say such a thing—and to a lady, too. I do believe you’re turning into a human being right before my very eyes.”
She reached out and gave his chin a saucy squeeze. “Yes, your granite scowl is turning to real flesh and blood. You had best hasten back to Lady Louise, or she’ll never recognize you.”
“Oh, no, miss, you don’t get rid of me that easily. I see what you’re about. You want to go scampering off with Sykes to enjoy a further taste of the low life. You will return to London with me, and when I’ve accomplished my business, we shall go to Tunbridge Wells together. Without Sykes,” he added firmly.
“Oh.�
� Her lips pouted in an enchanting moue. Salverton gazed, trying in vain to imagine Louise’s lips in such an enticing position.
“I think we ought to ask him to come with us, Cousin,” she continued. “He’s been so very helpful. If it weren’t for Mr. Sykes, we wouldn’t have found Amy.”
‘“We know where Wanda and Darren are now. We can dispense with Sykes’s services,” Salverton insisted.
Sykes soon had them back at his rooming house. As they clambered out, he called down to Salverton, “About the blunt missing from your purse, melord, did Miss Oakleigh explain?”
Salverton’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Miss Oakleigh forgot to mention that. We were having such a delightful conversation, it slipped her mind.”
“You had to pay for the damages, see.”
Salverton drew out his purse and uttered a light howl of protest. “Ten pounds! Dammit, the only damage was a few broken bits of cheap crockery.”
“There was the spillage of wine to the carpets as well,” Sykes explained. “Cheap at the price.”
“The carpets weren’t worth a shilling.”
Sykes laughed. “That depends on whether you’re buying or selling.” He cracked the whip and the carriage moved on.
“Thief,” Salverton muttered, counting what remained of his money.
As they went into the house, Samantha asked how his head felt.
“It aches like the deuce. I don’t suppose you have any headache powders?”
“I never get headaches,” she replied with an apologetic shrug. “I’m disgustingly healthy. Miss Donaldson gets them; she finds a nice cup of tea helps.”
“I doubt ‘a nice cup of tea’ will be available here.”
“It’s too late to rouse Mr. Sykes’s aunt, but if you don’t mind taking your tea a little cooled, there’s a pot in my room. Mr. Sykes brought it to me,” she added with a fond smile.
As Salverton could think of nothing cutting enough to satisfy his fury, he just held the door and glared as she entered.
The tea was at room temperature. The bread had hardened around the edges as well, but as Samantha poured the tea and urged some refreshment on him, Salverton felt his anger ebb.
No harm had come of the little excursion after all—barring that tap on the head and the loss of ten pounds—and they had gotten a new lead on Darren.
“You wanted a taste of excitement. This will be something to remember when you return to Milford,” he said, smiling.
Strangely, now that he had accepted the situation, Samantha was frowning.
“What do you think they’ll do to Darren, Edward?” she asked, and gazed at him with such a trusting look that he felt ten feet tall. It had been a long time since a pretty young lady had looked at him like that. He remembered her soft hands caressing his brow.
When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I’ll take care of it, Samantha. Don’t worry.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. Salverton hadn’t quite overcome his aversion to inelegance. He drew out a pristine handkerchief and handed it to her.
“You’re so kind,” she said, daubing at her tears. “I had no idea you would be so helpful. I didn’t want to appeal to you. Miss Donaldson made me. She said you would know what to do, and she was right. It must be difficult, being the one everyone turns to when he’s in the suds.”
“I do what I can. Family, after all,” he said modestly.
“The next time any of our relatives call you stiff-rumped, I shall give them a good piece of my mind,” she said.
That brought Salverton back to earth with a thump. “Is that what they say of me behind my back?”
She smiled. “You do give that impression, you know, but I think it’s mainly impatience. I’m sure you have all sorts of important things on your mind, a gentleman like you.”
“I do carry a heavy load at Whitehall,” he admitted, again modestly. “There’s a report I should be working on ... But I shall do as I promised, and look after Darren first.”
“Well, you’re very kind, Cousin, and I thank you.”
She reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. For a moment their eyes met and held. Neither of them said anything, but they were both conscious of some emotion more powerful than a simple kiss on the cheek would cause.
After a moment, Salverton cleared his throat. “Happy I could help. Well, good night, Cousin.”
“Good night, Edward.”
As he returned to his own room, Salverton’s fingers massaged the spot where she had kissed him. A small smile tugged at his lips. He wouldn’t have admitted it for the world, but he was looking forward to Tunbridge Wells with Samantha, without Jonathon Sykes to cause mischief.
Chapter Nine
Salverton was accustomed to arising at seven to get an early start on his day’s work. He disliked dressing in evening clothes in the morning, and especially in yesterday’s soiled shirt, but at least he managed to get hot water and the loan of a dull razor from Mabel—for a price. The bump on the back of his head didn’t show. As he shaved in the few square inches of dim mirror over his dressing table, however, he noticed that his left eye was bruised from the fight at Mike Skelton’s gaming hell. How was he to explain that to Louise? She disapproved of violence, even the socially acceptable sort practiced at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Parlor.
At half past seven he put his ear to the connecting door to listen for sounds that Samantha was up and dressing. All was silence. The obvious didn’t occur to him—that she was still sleeping. He immediately leapt to the conclusion that she had run off to Tunbridge Wells with Sykes—without himself, after all his efforts on her behalf.
He flung the door open and barged into her room. The noise aroused Samantha, who was just awaking. She sat up in her bed, staring in consternation at Salverton. A golden tousle of curls tumbled about her cheeks. Her blue eyes blinked in confusion. Salverton just stared, half in admiration and half in embarrassment. How could a woman look so lovely, so ravishing, so early in the morning?
In the first instant of awakening, Samantha hardly recognized her cousin. Salverton’s bruised eye lent him a touch of recklessness. She felt that a strange man was breaking into her room. She pulled the bedcovers up to her chin and emitted one loud, high-pitched scream.
Salverton hastened toward the bed. “Stop that! You’ll bring half the house to your door. What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, his eyebrows drawn together in a sharp frown.
“Oh, Cousin!” she gasped, and put her fingers to her cheeks in embarrassment as she remembered the night’s proceedings. “I’m sorry. You frightened me half to death. I didn’t recognize you at first. Is it time to get up?” She reached for her watch that she had placed on the bedside table.
Salverton noticed the becoming lawn nightgown she wore, with rosebuds embroidered by Miss Donaldson across the top. It was far from immodest. More of a lady’s body could be seen any night at a polite ball. But it was sleeveless and of a thin material that gave more than a suggestion of the supple curves beneath the gown. He knew he should leave the room, but he just stood, gazing at her as if mesmerized. His eyes moved slowly from her face to her dainty white arms and shoulders, to the thin lawn covering her upper body.
Samantha felt uncomfortable at this close scrutiny. She wasn’t afraid of her cousin, but she was shocked at his lack of control. To recall him to propriety, she said, “I had no idea it was so late. If you’ll leave, Edward, I shall be dressed and join you in a moment.”
He gave her a self-conscious look. “Yes, I’ll meet you below,” he said, and left the room at a rapid pace, mentally chastising himself for acting like a Johnnie Raw. But to judge by what he had seen, Samantha’s body was enough to make any red-blooded man take a second look. Should he apologize when she joined him? Or would it be best to just ignore that uncomfortable moment?
It occurred to Samantha that Edward had behaved like a schoolboy, or a hungry man looking at a meal. She already suspected the matc
h with Lady Louise was no love match, despite his protests. Did Edward not have a woman on the side? Had his affair with Esmée given him a disgust of hired escorts? What did he do about his physical needs? These thoughts flitted through her mind as she splashed cold water on her face, hastily dressed, and ran a comb through her curls.
At a quarter to eight she joined Salverton. He was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase.
“We’re not eating breakfast here,” he said firmly. “I’ve seen the dining room. It’s been taken over by black beetles. Sykes will take the carriage back to Winkler’s. We’ll walk to the Curzon.”
“But you’re dressed for the evening. And in that black eye, Edward, you look like a debauched dandy.” Her tinkling laughter was not entirely devoid of admiration.
“A case of the pot calling the kettle black,” he said, smiling as his gaze moved to her bonnet.
“I doubt they’ll let us in the door.”
“They’ve never banned me from entering before. I shouldn’t think the hotel will be busy this early in the morning. We’ll hire a private parlor and eat there.”
A quick glance at the few clients on their way to the breakfast parlor left Samantha with no wish to join them. It would be lovely to sit down at a table with a clean cover and good food.
“We should say good-bye to Jonathon,” she said.
“I’ve had a word with him. Sykes has been amply paid for his services,” he said, not reprimanding her for using the man’s first name—as if “Mr. Sykes” were not bad enough!—but stressing the Sykes, to remind her he was a servant.
As he spoke, he took her elbow and led her from the house. At least the weather was in their favor. A luminous copper disc in the watery sky suggested it would be a fine day once they got beyond the coastal mist. The breeze from the ocean was not so very chilly. Salverton set a brisk pace, and they arrived at the Curzon before his coachman. They found the lobby virtually empty. He asked for a private parlor and managed to get Samantha hidden away without being seen by anyone but the hotel employees. Then he sent word that his coachman was to wait for him outside.