She shooed him, directing him to a table in the corner before she stepped behind the bar again and pulled two pints. Then, once she was sitting on the bench nearest his, she touched her tankard to his and was silent. It was their usual toast to his mother, marking her absence.
“You were the best thing she ever did,” Theodosia said after a moment and shook her head. “Your brother . . . Well, word tells me that Vincent is very much like your father. Not to mention, eager to inherit. His debts are mounting. He wants to sell off the land and the house that was part of your mother’s dowry. But I hear your sodden cuss of a father already did.”
This news took Lucan by surprise. That land was worth a goodly sum. Game of all sorts filled the forested acreage. Fernwood Glade had been left untended but had served as his own refuge many times over the years. Whenever he needed a place to escape his inner demons, he went there. Yet it was early spring when he’d last visited. He wondered who the new owner was. More than that, he wondered why his father would have sold it after all this time. Typically, he’d enjoyed using the land as a taunt against both Vincent and Lucan, threatening to burn it all to the ground, leaving nothing of their mother behind. Of course, Vincent thought little, if anything at all, of preserving their mother’s memory. Like most in line for the title, he only wanted the property.
“Then Father had better hope that Vincent isn’t too like him.” It was a well-kept family secret that the Marquess of Camdonbury had poisoned his own father in order to gain the title. Of course, he hadn’t been tried or hung for that crime either, because Clivedale had been his friend then too. “Besides, Father never cared for the house after the marriage contract was signed. He only wanted the dowry, the land, and the heir.”
“But the best came later,” Theodosia said, patting his hand with affection.
Lucan recalled how his mother had said things like that. She’d endured years of abuse, and there had been nothing he could do about it. His only consolation was that she did not have to suffer any longer. “I’m better off without Camdonbury and his heir. After all, debt and murder follows the family line.”
She took a hearty swallow of ale. “Not if the title ended up in the right hands.”
“That is an old argument, long buried. Besides, I hear Vincent has found himself a bride,” Lucan said with a shudder. He already planned to do his best to warn her away, the same way he had with Vincent’s previous candidates.
Theodosia offered a noncommittal grumble over the topic being put to rest. “I also heard mention of wager.”
“Did you now? Considering you run a tavern, I’m not surprised.” Now it was his turn for a few gulps of ale. He knew she was referring to his wager, but he didn’t want her to know the desperate state he was in.
“Ten thousand pounds . . . Quite a sum.” She whistled. “You know if you need any money, I still have my dowry tucked away. A little land, a little house, and hmm . . . about thirty thousand in silver.”
“Don’t say that too loudly, Aunt,” he said with a chuckle. “I bet not many of the patrons know you’re an heiress.”
“Eh . . . I’ve had my offers, but marriage isn’t for likes of me.” She took another long swig, her gaze taking in the clean but worn tables. She’d once said that she could build a fancy place, but who would she get to come to it? She couldn’t tolerate the Quality. Not even before her sister’s death. “Just so you know, whatever I have is yours.”
“I’m not a borrower or a beggar. At least a wager has honor.” And honor was what separated him from his father.
She smiled at his vehemence. Resting her forearms on the table, she curled her hands around the base of her cup. “All right, then, down to the other reason I called you here. I wanted to tell you that your old family physician stopped by two days past. Smarmy cuss. He didn’t recognize me. Not surprising. I’m hardly the same accomplished spinster that I used to be in my former life. But I’ll never forget the man who’d claimed that your mother took a fall, and it was all an accident.”
Lucan set down his tankard with a clunk. He wondered what would bring a cautious fellow like Clivedale to Lincolnshire. More importantly, did it have anything to do with Whitelock and their secret exchanges? “What was Clivedale doing here?”
She tilted her head in a shrug. “It looked like he was meeting a fellow. He waited for a few hours and when no one came, he left a coin on the table and walked out. But then I happened to look outside and see him slip into a black carriage, which had all the shades pulled down. Though the painted crest on the door had mostly worn away, I noticed enough to spark a memory.”
Lucan sat forward. “And?”
“Laurel leaves in a bird’s talons”—she paused—“I believe that’s part of Viscount Whitelock’s crest.”
Lucan kept his breathing calm and even, concealing the internal jolt that started off a series of guesses tripping through his mind. But still, he had nothing concrete. Not yet. “Perhaps Clivedale is the viscount’s physician.”
“Then why meet in secret?”
Why, indeed. “The next time Clivedale shows up here, send me a missive. I’d like to chat with him.”
She agreed but scrutinized Lucan with her shrewd gaze as if she saw the gears of his mind turning. “Clivedale was a friend of Camdonbury’s for a time, starting before your grandfather’s death. Then again, Camdonbury always preferred friends with no scruples. And with Clivedale having apprenticed as an apothecary, I’m sure that made his friendship quite valuable.”
“I never knew that about Clivedale,” Lucan admitted.
“Aye. That tidbit was forgotten when your grandfather wound up poisoned as well.”
Lucan thought back to that day at Tattersall’s, the exchange he’d witnessed and the way they’d pretended not to know each other.
“Tell me, Aunt, what do you know of Whitelock?”
“That he’s too good to be true. Never heard a bad word so much as whispered about him. No one is that crisp and clean on the outside without a wrinkled soul on the inside,” she said with a sage nod, pursing her lips. “Of course, having an invalid wife likely helps his impeccable reputation. It wouldn’t serve him to meet with an unscrupulous man like Clivedale. Not out in the open.”
Could Clivedale still be dealing with poisons or . . .
Lucan stilled. Even though he knew nothing about the viscountess, he recalled Frances mentioning the drops she’d had to put in the viscountess’s tea. Suddenly, Whitelock’s farm on the coast of China seemed neither boring nor benign. Considering the location, it was likely an opium farm, which wasn’t illegal, but it certainly raised questions. Was Whitelock an opium-eater? It seemed unlikely. The man was far too sharp-witted.
Was it possible that Whitelock kept his wife drugged on opium? If so, was his reason to keep her an invalid or to gain sympathy for having such a wife as a burden?
Perhaps it was both.
“It’s no secret that Clivedale’s wealth has increased exponentially over the years,” Theodosia hissed.
Gaining riches by providing a discreet service? It was possible. Or perhaps he earned his money by blackmailing those who sought his services.
Now it was Lucan’s turn to scrutinize his aunt. “You’ve been keeping watch on his dealings all this time?”
“I’ve been waiting,” she said, her voice a harsh growl. “One day, he will find himself in a position of distress. He will have made a vital error and nothing will save him from the hangman’s noose. That is when I will play my hand—a confession for his life. You see, I still have friends in London. Influential friends, who might be willing to offer Clivedale a bargain. And then the truth of what your blackguard father did to my sister will finally be revealed.”
She let out a breath. Tears, once again, glistened in her eyes.
Lucan squeezed her hand. “You are a formidable woman.”
“Be glad that I am on your side,” she said with a raspy laugh, breaking the tension of the moment. “So tell me about this wag
er.”
He’d wondered when she would return to this. There wasn’t any use in trying to outmaneuver her onto a different topic. Therefore, he gave her an abbreviated version, leaving out the fact that Hugh Thorne’s life depended on his winning, as long as Whitelock accepted the money.
“And when you struck the bargain, you were confident you’d never marry?”
He thought of Frances instantly. Never lasted a long time. He imagined it would feel even longer now. Already, he was planning a swift gallop back. He knew he was tempting fate as well as his control, but he couldn’t deny the overwhelming need to be with her. “Of course.”
“But now you’ve tasted forbidden fruit, and you’re not so sure.”
She couldn’t know that, he told himself, but he risked a sideways glance. Smug as can be, she nodded.
“Your spies have failed you this time,” he said with authority. Besides, it was more like tasting a forbidden glazed bun.
Those brackets fanned out over her cheeks when she grinned. “Fine. Have it your way, but I’d like to meet her sometime. Perhaps you could . . .abduct her and bring her here.”
Lucan frowned. So then, her spy was someone he knew, someone who knew all about Frances, and the comings and goings at Fallow Hall. “Who is it, Aunt?”
She laughed and patted his cheek. “Aw . . . you’re such a lamb to believe I’d ever tell.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Before Frances left the manor that afternoon, Lord Whitelock had insisted that his driver take her to the village, claiming that he refused to allow anything untoward to happen to her. Yet she suspected that he simply wanted to keep an eye on her.
Soon thereafter, she found herself in his carriage. Instead of directing the driver to the village, however, she asked Burt to take her to Fallow Hall. She explained that she was set to meet up with her friends there and that he should not wait. Unfortunately, when they arrived, he refused to leave until she offered a time for him to return for her—at Whitelock’s request, of course. After agreeing upon three hours, Frances was glad to see the carriage rumble out of the drive. Then, like before, when she arrived at Fallow Hall, the front door opened, and RJ bounded outside. Valentine stood at the door.
“Miss Thorne,” the butler began, “I’m afraid that Lady Everhart and Mrs. Danvers have just left for the market and to visit the poor with their husbands. It will likely be some time before they return.”
Frances stopped short. She glanced over her shoulder to see the carriage shrinking in the distance. “Oh. Are all the residents of Fallow Hall away?”
One corner of Valentine’s mouth wrinkled, hitching upward in something of a grin. “There is one other here. I believe he just arrived.”
She suspected he knew that she wanted to see Lucan most of all, but the butler gave nothing away. “Perhaps I could wait in the music room?”
Valentine inclined his head and led the way. Coincidentally, Lucan was just descending the main stairs as she entered the hall. They both stopped, arrested. His hair was slightly damp and clung to his temples. His dark cravat was tied in a simple knot as if he’d dressed in a hurry. The lapels of his smoky blue coat rose and fell with his breaths, and it seemed to take an age before he spoke. “Miss Thorne, I did not know you had plans to travel to Fallow Hall today.”
“I quite surprised myself.” But the truth was, she needed to see him. She needed to be alone with him, even for a few minutes, hours, days, years . . . an eternity. She would gladly take them all. “I hope you can forgive the intrusion.”
“You are more than welcome here,” he said quietly without a hint of teasing or flirtation. His words left little doubt of his being in earnest. “Always.”
A tender, terrifying thrill stirred to life inside her breast. At any moment, her heart could take flight, zip over the banister, and crash into him. If such a thing were possible, she believed that he would catch it. “I have just now discovered that your friends have gone to the village. Valentine was showing me to the music room.”
Something hot flashed across Lucan’s gaze. “Not to the parlor or to the study?”
“I’m rather fond of the music room.” And you, she thought. “Perhaps I could hear you play again, my lord.”
Lucan didn’t look away from her. “Valentine, please see that a tray of refreshments is sent to the music room.”
After descending the rest of the stairs, Lucan walked beside her down the corridor, both of them silent. And when they entered the music room, they paused just inside the doorway. With the house so quiet and with Lucan standing so near, her desire to merely have a moment alone with him took new form. She recalled the last time they were in this room together. The air seemed charged with the memory as well. Even the breath she took was warm and sultry.
Lucan’s sleeve brushed her bare arm, and the action caused her flesh to tighten, not only in that spot but all over her body. He looked down at her as if he’d felt the contact as well. His pupils were dark and round, rimmed with gold. “Should I play for you, Miss Thorne, or . . . ” He paused mid-question, leaving innumerable possibilities at their disposal. “Have you come to continue our previous conversation from last night?”
She nodded in answer, wanting both. Her body trembled in anticipation. “I believe we left off at your belief that I do not know my own mind.”
“Clearly that was short-sighted of me.” His hand cupped her elbow, his fingertips caressing her lightly. Then, he escorted her away from the open door and toward the row of chairs. He could kiss her here without anyone seeing them . . .
She lifted her gaze, licked her lips, hoped. “Quite.”
“I also recall trying to keep my distance, but clearly that method has not aided my self-control whatsoever,” he confessed, lowering his head. His hand reached up to cup her cheek. “In fact—”
Unfortunately, the distant clink of glassware from down the hall interrupted. A maid would soon arrive with their refreshment.
Lucan glanced over his shoulder. “It is a good thing we are not alone, or else I might forget myself entirely.”
“I would like that.”
He closed his eyes and, with a heavy exhale, moved to the piano.
Reluctantly, Frances sat in her chair while Lucan began to play. They said little more by way of conversation. All her thoughts were centered on waiting for that tray to arrive, waiting until they would be truly alone. At any moment, she was likely to explode from the anticipation.
“Did you have an enjoyable visit with your aunt?” she asked, fidgeting in her chair.
Lucan nodded. “She is eager to make your acquaintance.”
“You spoke of me?” This surprised Frances. She knew that Lucan was a private person and couldn’t help but wonder what it meant that he would speak to his aunt about her.
“To be honest, she already knew about you and how you came to be at Fallow Hall on that first day. Theodosia has a mysterious way of knowing too much.”
“Rather like her nephew, I suppose,” Frances said affectionately, not caring that her tendre for him was transparent.
He studied her intently, his expression unreadable. “Of course, you could very well be cross with me for not mentioning you to her first.”
She swallowed down a sudden rise of exhilaration. “That would be a bold assumption on my part, wouldn’t it?”
“Let it never be said that either of us is guilty of making bold assumptions.” He laughed wryly and then glanced at the door. His notes took an ominous chord.
In the next moment, Grace brought in a tray of lemonade and a dish of strawberries, which she told Frances were the sweetest because they were the last. Frances thanked her and set the tray on the window seat nearest the piano.
Once they were alone, Frances poured Lucan a glass and moved to stand beside him. “Don’t stop playing. Allow me.” She brought the rim to his lips.
Lifting his gaze to hers, Lucan drank deeply, emptying half the glass. When he finished, she lingered near, stroking h
is hair, and then bent to press a kiss to his head. His hair was cool and damp against her lips. The music he played spilled over her, filling her head with an idea that would surely be shocking, but the risk was worth it, no matter the consequences.
Placing the glass back on the tray, she moved across the room. Without hesitating, she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Her mind was made up. She knew what she wanted. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Lucan raise his brows.
“The breeze from the windows closed the door,” she explained.
He glanced at all the closed windows and then to her. His dimple appeared. “I can see that.”
On her way back, she unhooked her mother’s brooch and slipped the fichu from around her neck. “It is a little warm for this,” she said, folding the gauzy square of fabric before she set it down on a table.
As she returned to his side, his gaze drifted appreciatively over the newly exposed skin, the modest swells rising above the neckline of her simple blue dress. She stepped behind him, brushing her hands over his shoulders as he played. Leaning down once more to kiss his head, she breathed in his comforting scent.
“You feel rather warm as well,” she whispered, slipping her hands down his lapels and underneath to feel the hard contours of his chest. “Would you like me to remove your coat?”
He pressed his lips to her cheek, her jaw, and nuzzled her just behind her ear. “You are impossible to resist. Remove any article of clothing that you like, either on my person or yours.”
“What a scandalous thing to suggest. Think of my reputation,” she chided while her hands skimmed his torso. “However, if you continue to play, I doubt anyone will suspect.”
The sound of his amusement vibrated through her, cascading down through her body. She slipped his coat free, one arm at a time, while he continued to play with minimal interruption. Kissing his temple, she pressed her cheek against his as her hands roamed down his arms. The fine lawn of his shirt was damp in places and heat radiated from him. Wanting to cool him, she untied his cravat and let it drop to the floor.
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 19