“He always wins, damn his eyes,” grumbled a man with his back to them. “They all do.”
When the man turned and headed down the road to Turnham, Giles got a good look at his profile and gave a start.
“Minerva,” he said in a low voice. “What the hell is your mother’s cousin doing here?”
Chapter Six
Minerva missed Giles’s remark in the cheers that followed as Gabe shot over the finish line. Relieved that he’d survived the race intact, she turned to Giles with a smile on her face. “What did you say?”
“Desmond Plumtree is here. Does he usually watch Gabe’s races?”
She followed Giles’s gaze to where a man in his fifties strolled down the road to Turnham. It was her cousin, all right. She’d recognize his discolored beaver hat with its narrow brim anywhere. Beside him was his twenty-six-year-old son, Ned.
“I can’t imagine why Desmond would come for this,” she said. “He’s always been too priggish to approve of our ‘outrageous ways,’ as he calls them. And they live in Rochester where their mill is, half a day’s journey away at least. What business could he and Ned possibly have here?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Giles said tersely. “It’s not the first time he’s been in Turnham.”
A chill went through her. “Oh, Lord, you’re right.”
His gaze shot to her. “You know?”
“About Jarret’s suspicions concerning Desmond and his possible involvement in our parents’ deaths? Of course I know. Nothing is ever a secret in our house.”
He eyed her askance. “Jarret wouldn’t have told you.”
“Well, no.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “But I overheard him discussing it with Oliver. Jarret said Desmond stayed in Turnham on the day of our parents’ deaths, and the groom who cared for his horse claimed that Desmond had blood on his stirrup when he returned to the inn from wherever he’d been.”
Taking her arm, Giles started back toward his curricle.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m leaving you with my tiger while I follow the Plumtrees and find out why they’re here. It’s odd that Desmond should be in Turnham again, for no apparent reason. It might shed light on why he was here the night of your parents’ deaths.”
She snatched her arm from his hand. “If you follow him, so will I.” She set off toward the road, along with those leaving the race, and headed toward Turnham. “It’s my family we’re talking about, you know.”
Shooting her an exasperated look, he fell into step beside her. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be seen by your brothers at the race?”
“This is far more important.” It was odd that Desmond had come here. What did it mean? “And two of us have a better chance of uncovering the truth.”
“All right. But follow my lead. We don’t want him to see us. It could be dangerous if he realizes that we suspect him.”
“Now you really do sound like a spy,” she teased.
“Only because you think of everyone in terms of how they might fit into your fictional landscape,” he countered with a thin smile.
“Fictional landscape.” She chuckled. “I like that. I’ll have to use it in a book. I may even give the line to Rockton.”
“You’re not going to write about Rockton anymore, remember?” His gaze sharpened at a point ahead of them. “They’re entering the Black Bull.”
“That’s where Desmond stayed when he came to Turnham nineteen years ago.” She kept her voice low because of the men around them who were also surging toward the Black Bull.
“I wouldn’t make too much of that; it’s the only inn in Turnham. And they might just be availing themselves of the taproom, as these other gentlemen plan to do, I suspect.”
“There’s an easy way to find out if they’re guests,” she said. “We could see if Desmond’s rig is in the stables.”
“Good thinking, my dear,” he said, taking a sudden turn toward the stables. “No wonder you plot your books so cleverly.”
The compliment warmed her more than all his earlier remarks about her “fetching figure” and “creamy skin.”
He led them past the stables at a quick walk. “Would you recognize his rig if you saw it?”
“Certainly. His favorite equipage is a gig that’s painted the most god-awful blue.” She glanced casually into the stables. “It’s there, Giles. He’s staying in the inn. Why?”
They kept walking. “I don’t know, but clearly he didn’t just pop over here to watch Gabe race.” He stopped at the other end of the stables to stare back at the inn. “If we could at least learn . . .” He groaned. “Uh-oh. He’s coming back out.”
Swiftly, he tugged her around the side of the stables. As they watched furtively, Desmond and Ned strode across the inn yard. After Desmond spoke to the ostler, they climbed into the gig and drove off toward Ealing.
Giles’s gaze narrowed and he turned to Minerva. “I have an idea for how we can find out what he’s doing here. Come on.”
Taking her arm, he headed to the inn. As they walked, he removed his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket, then fished a ring out of his other coat pocket and put it on his left ring finger. “Play along, Minerva.”
When he covered her hand with his, she glanced down at the ring, then started. It was a signet ring of the kind titled gentlemen wore.
Before she could ask where he’d acquired it, he walked inside bold as brass and headed straight for the innkeeper, who was busily directing servants to accommodate the sudden crowd of thirsty gentlemen.
“Ah, my good man,” he called to the innkeeper, “do you by any chance have rooms available? Or has this crowd rented them all?”
The innkeeper took their measure in one quick glance, then smiled broadly. “No, sir. They’ve only come to drink after the race. They’ll be gone by evening. Did you need a room for the night?”
“Several nights, actually.” When Minerva started, Giles squeezed her hand, as if to caution her. Then he added with the perfect amount of condescension, “I am Lord Manderley of Durham, and this is my wife.”
The innkeeper’s eyes lit up. Clearly he had no trouble believing Giles, and who wouldn’t? As always, Giles was dressed as well as any titled lord—his coat and trousers of dark brown superfine were exquisitely tailored to show off his broad shoulders and muscular calves, his waistcoat was of the finest figured silk, and his Wellington boots were perfectly polished.
And he had the haughty manner down pat. “Your inn seems to be adequate for our purposes,” he went on. “We are in the area looking at properties to purchase. We plan to spend the week at least, but we do have one question before we decide if your establishment will suit us.”
“Ask anything you wish, my lord,” the innkeeper said with great enthusiasm.
Minerva could practically see him calculating the amount of money to be made from a rich lord who would require a week’s worth of lodgings and expensive meals, not to mention stabling for a team of horses.
“As we were approaching the inn,” Giles said, “we saw a gentleman we thought we knew. A Mr. Desmond Plumtree?”
“Yes, my lord. Mr. Plumtree is indeed staying here with his son.”
Giles turned to her with a frown. “I told you it was him, my dear. I cannot tolerate the sight of that man day after day, knowing what he did to my poor brother.”
Catching on to his game, Minerva said soothingly, “Oh, I’m sure it will be fine, darling.” She smiled at the innkeeper. “He’s not staying long, is he?”
“Oh no, my lady, just one more night,” the innkeeper said hastily. “And he’s not even here at the moment. He’s gone off on his wanderings.”
“Wanderings!” Giles cried. “So he’s in the neighborhood a great deal, is he?”
“No, my lord, certainly not! He hasn’t been here in nigh on twenty years . . . until a few months ago.”
“But he’ll be here tonight.” With a heavy sigh, Giles glanced at her. “We should fin
d another inn closer to Ealing. Honestly, sweetiekins, there are more properties in that vicinity to suit our needs than in this one.”
Sweetiekins? She stifled her smile. “But I’m so tired. Can’t we just stay here?”
“I don’t know. If we should happen to come across Mr. Plumtree, I’m not sure I can contain myself.”
“My lord,” the innkeeper interjected, “I swear that your paths won’t cross. I’ll make sure that you’re put in an entirely different part of the inn.”
“I suppose he has taken the best room in the house already,” Giles complained.
“Oh no, my lord. The best room is in the back, and his is in the front, overlooking the inn yard. So you see, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Come, my dove, I’m sure we can avoid him for just the one night,” Minerva wheedled.
Giles gave the innkeeper a pouting look. “If you can assure us . . .”
“I swear you won’t have to endure Mr. Plumtree’s presence for one moment. I’ll show you the room. I’m sure it will please you.”
The innkeeper hurried up the stairs, his other guests forgotten.
As Minerva and Giles followed, she whispered, “This had better not be a ploy to get me alone.”
“Now, sweetiekins, would I do that?” he teased.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, my dove.”
As they approached the room, Giles said, “And where exactly did you say his room was?”
“I’ll show you, my lord.” The innkeeper brought them to the end of the hall and pointed down another. “It’s that last room on the left. He won’t come back till late, and I’m sure you will have retired by then.”
Giles sighed. “Very well, since my dear wife is so set upon it, we’ll take it.” He dropped some gold into the innkeeper’s hand.
The man’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lord, certainly.” He led them back to their room and opened it. “Shall I have someone fetch your bags?”
“My man is coming behind with them in another rig. Do let me know when he arrives, will you?”
“Of course.” He handed the key to Giles. “If you need anything else . . .”
“We’ll be fine for now. My dear lady wants to rest.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
As soon as the man was gone, Minerva said, “You lie just a jot too convincingly for my taste, sir.”
“I could say the same about you, sweetiekins.” He grinned.
“Call me that again and you’ll find yourself missing an essential part of your anatomy.”
“What a spoilsport you are.” He went out into the hall and looked both ways. No one was around. “Come on,” he said and headed for Desmond’s room.
She followed him, curious to see what he was up to.
Giles reached the door and tried it. It was locked. “Give me one of your hairpins.”
She removed one and handed it to him. “What are you planning to do?”
He went to work on the lock. “Take a look at his room, what else?”
“Giles Masters, how on earth did you learn—”
“I work with criminals, remember? They’ve taught me a trick or two. Comes in useful when I stumble home drunk to find I’ve misplaced my key.”
She eyed him skeptically. That was the flimsiest excuse she’d ever heard for a talent that was decidedly suspicious.
It took him mere moments to pick the lock. Then he led her inside and closed the door. He headed straight for the open trunk in one corner.
Minerva scanned the room. It was actually quite fine by coaching inn standards, with a chest of drawers, large bed, fancy dressing screen, and a lovely washbasin and pitcher of blue speckled china. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything that will tell us why he and his son are here.”
“Well, it’s not for their health,” she said, taking note of the empty wine bottles piled up on the oak table and the pair of muddy boots sitting near the bed. “Someone’s been tramping in the damp outdoors. Hunting, perhaps?”
“It’s not hunting season,” Giles said as he searched the trunk with great care.
“Nineteen years ago, he told the groom at this inn that the blood on his stirrup came from hunting.”
“I know. It wasn’t hunting season then, either.”
“Depends on what you’re hunting,” Minerva said coldly. “Or whom.”
Giles straightened and held something out to her with a grim expression. “Indeed it does.”
She looked close to find that he held a crude, hand-drawn map. After one glance, she felt goose bumps rise on her flesh. “I think that’s our estate.”
“I agree it resembles it, but it’s hard to tell with nothing but fields, forests, and hills delineated on it. And some of the landmarks look wrong.” He examined it carefully. “If it is a map of the estate, what does Plumtree want with it?”
“I don’t know. Giles, you don’t think he really could have killed them, do you?”
“We don’t have enough information yet to be sure. But if he did, what was his reason? And why is he returning so many years later . . . if that really is where he’s going?” Heading back to the trunk, he said, “Look in those drawers over there. See if you can find a journal or letters or anything more than this.”
A sudden sound in the hall made them both start.
“I can’t believe you left it here, you blithering fool,” said Desmond’s voice. “We can’t get anywhere without the map.”
Casting her a warning glance, Giles tossed the map into the trunk and nodded her toward the dressing screen. She and Giles slid behind it just seconds before the door opened.
Thankfully, there was a chair there. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap so their heads couldn’t be seen above the screen. Her pulse was racing, but he seemed surprisingly calm. He didn’t even jump when Desmond’s voice sounded again very near them. She nearly leaped out of her skin.
“I swear to God, Ned,” Desmond grumbled, “how can you be such an imbecile? You left the door unlocked, too.”
“I didn’t! Why are you always blaming me?”
Giles wrapped his arms about her waist, and she leaned into him, half afraid that Desmond might hear the thundering of her heart. If he found them here, what would he do? Considering what he might have done to Mama and Papa—
No, that was absurd. Even if he had been involved in her parents’ deaths, he wouldn’t be fool enough to harm her and Giles in a public inn, with his son present. Besides, if Giles could talk his way in here, he could certainly talk his way out.
“I blame you because whenever things go wrong, it’s usually your fault,” Desmond complained to Ned. “You’re the one who left the map here.”
“At least now you can change your boots,” Ned said. “You don’t want to ruin your best pair.”
“I suppose. Ah, and here’s the map, at the very top of the trunk. You’d think you’d have seen it there.”
“I swear it wasn’t there when we left.”
“Of course it was,” Desmond snapped. The bed creaked, as if he’d sat down on it. “You never look for anything. I don’t know why I even brought you along this time.”
“Because I’m handy with a blade, that’s why.”
A chill ran through Minerva. Good Lord. When had her second cousin picked up that little talent?
“For all the good that does us,” Desmond said. “Now come here and help me with these boots.”
Minerva wanted to scream. How long did the two mean to stay, anyway? She tilted her head to look at Giles, who was calmly watching the edge of the screen. Wasn’t he the slightest bit worried that they might be caught? That Ned might use the blade he was handy with? Giles acted as if he got into such dangerous situations every day.
Her blood ran cold. Perhaps he did. What if there was a reason he knew all these strange things? What if he were involved in some secret plot? He might even be a spy for the French, like Rockton!
Right. Giles as a spy. Her imagination was getti
ng the better of her. Giles would never be a traitor. And England would never hire a rascal like him to do that sort of work. Besides, the war with France had ended ten years ago, so who would he spy on? Denizens of a gaming hell? The publican at his favorite tavern?
Ridiculous thought.
He caught her staring at him and his gaze darkened, then swept slowly down her in a heated glance that seared her wherever it touched. Suddenly she became very aware that she was sitting on his lap. It felt very . . . personal. Especially when his hand began to slide over her belly, back and forth, with a familiarity that made her blood race.
His very eyes invited her to sin as they fixed on her mouth and deepened to a cobalt blue. She jerked her gaze from his, but it was too late. Now she was all too conscious of him. The scent of his Guard’s Bouquet enveloped her, mingling with the smell of sweat and dirt and pure man. His strong thighs flexed under her bottom, and she could feel his breath fanning the ribbons of her bonnet. Worst of all, his hand continued to move in slow, seductive circles on her corseted belly, rousing an acute ache for more.
What was he doing? He must be out of his mind. They were inches away from being discovered, and he was . . .
Oh, Lord. He was stealthily removing her bonnet. He handed it to her, then had the audacity to kiss her hair. This was madness!
This was intoxicating. To be held by a man like this. To be this close, this intimate. To feel the heat of his body against her own. She ought to be chiding him with a look, at the very least. She knew very well how to quell a man’s advances that way.
Yet she sat here doing nothing, reveling in the excitement that coursed through her, the thrill of doing something dangerous.
The thrill of doing it with Giles. The fact that they were a hairsbreadth away from being discovered enhanced the thrill even more.
She could hear Desmond cursing at Ned to hurry, could feel when the first boot hit the floor, but all her concentration was on Giles, who was now kissing her temple, her cheek, her ear. His faintly whiskered chin scraped the delicate skin of her jaw, and she wanted so badly to turn her mouth to meet his.
Why did he have to be so good at this? And why must she melt into a quivering pudding whenever he began to caress her?
How to Woo a Reluctant Lady Page 9