Giles stared coldly at the man.
Newmarsh continued, “You will arrange it because you have a future that you want to secure. I, on the other hand, have no future. And what I ask is a small inconvenience compared to what you did to me.”
“What I did? You mean, keeping you from ruining anyone else in your eagerness to gain a cut of Sir John’s fraudulent profits?” His voice rose with anger. “Making sure that the son of a bitch was hanged for bilking hundreds of people out of their money? He would never have been brought to justice without those documents, and you certainly weren’t going to turn on him.”
Newmarsh showed no trace of remorse. “True. And my only regret is that I didn’t hide them well enough from the likes of you.” He leaned back. “Tell me, how do you think the bar will respond to accusations that one of their attorneys helped the government make a case by illegally obtaining evidence?”
Sickened by the very thought, Giles rose. “I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”
When he turned to leave, Newmarsh said, “I understand you have a new wife.”
An icy chill swept down Giles’s neck. Slowly he faced Newmarsh. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“I daresay she’ll feel otherwise if her husband’s past actions are dragged through the papers.”
Newmarsh was right. How would Minerva handle watching her husband’s reputation held up to scrutiny, his trials questioned, his every move examined and reexamined by the press? She’d lived through one such scandal in her life. He could never ask her to endure another.
In a voice less shaky than he felt, he said, “You’ve made your point, Newmarsh. I’ll take care of it.”
But as he left, he realized how precarious his position was. He’d stolen those papers before he’d started informing for the Home Office. Burning with the need for vengeance—and a way to make up for his own wasted life—he’d acted precipitously. The ends had justified the means for him.
Unfortunately, others might not view it that way. He hadn’t lied about the government’s policy concerning blackmail—they were not going to want to give in to Newmarsh’s demands. So Giles would have to offer them something they wanted in order to gain their compliance.
And they wanted only one thing from him—his continued work as an operative.
He swore foully as he strode back to the hotel. He didn’t want to return to that, damn it. He wanted his life back. He wanted a future.
If Minerva found out that the risks he’d taken nine years ago had come back to ruin both their lives, she would lose all the faith she’d put in him. So would his family. So would everyone. He would return to being the failure, the waste of a second son. He refused to do that. He’d worked too hard to leave that behind him.
He might get lucky and the government just might decide to bend their policy for him.
And if not?
Ravenswood had said they wanted him badly enough to offer him political favors. And he knew exactly what favor he wanted, even if it did mean giving in to Newmarsh’s blackmail. And returning to working with Ravenswood.
Damn it all to hell!
Now fully in a temper, he entered the Hotel Bourbon, ignoring the owner, who tried to gain his attention as came in. After hurrying up the stairs, he slowed his steps to the whisper-soft ones he used when sneaking around trying to get information. It was a little harder to unlock the door silently, but he managed it.
So it came as a shock when he opened it to find Minerva sitting up in bed, reading. For half a breath, he hoped that she’d just been waiting for his return. But when she put the book down and cast him an anxious stare, he knew that was a futile hope.
“Where the devil did you go?” she asked, her eyes showing pure betrayal.
He was in big trouble.
Chapter Twenty
Minerva watched, her stomach sinking, as Giles removed his coat and turned away to hang it on the back of a chair. “Well? I went down to the common room looking for you, but you weren’t there.”
He paused in the act of unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Still don’t trust me, I see.”
“It had nothing to do with trust. I couldn’t sleep either, so I thought we could have a glass of wine together.” The half-truth caught in her throat. Forcing herself to go on, she tried not to sound like some accusing wife. “But you weren’t in the hotel.”
He removed his waistcoat and placed it with precise motions over the chair. “When the wine didn’t help, I went for a walk.”
His explanation was plausible, except for one thing. “The hotel owner said he hadn’t seen you in the common room at all. He seemed to believe you were still upstairs.” When Giles remained silent, she said in a low voice, “You promised not to lie to me.”
“And I won’t,” he snapped. “Just don’t ask me questions about things that don’t concern you.”
The knife went in so quickly that it took a moment for her to react. Then the hurt set in, bone deep. “I see,” she choked out. Rolling over to put the book on the bedside table, she pulled the covers up to her chin.
Giles cursed under his breath and came toward the bed. “Damn it, Minerva, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”
“Then how did you mean it?” She fought to keep the quiver from her voice, but when he hesitated, that was impossible. She turned to stare at him, the knife twisting in her chest. “Were you . . . were you with a woman?”
“A woman!” he exclaimed with clear outrage on his face. “God, no. I would never do that to you.”
The vehemence in his voice made her want to believe him.
Yet when he came to stand beside the bed, his eyes looked lost. “I had to take care of a matter of business,” he went on, “and I didn’t want you thinking that this trip . . . that we came here—”
“For some reason other than a honeymoon?” she asked.
“Yes! Exactly.” He hastily stripped off the rest of his clothes and got into bed beside her. “That’s all it was. I swear.”
Somehow she knew there was more to it than that. His nervousness earlier in the day, the look of pure shock on his face when he’d come through the door to find her still up—everything said that this was more than a matter of business.
For one thing, there was no reason he couldn’t have told her that in the first place. For another, who did business in the dead of night? And why wouldn’t he look at her?
“So what was this matter of business?” she asked, watching his face.
His expression went cold. Still not looking at her, he leaned over to blow out the candle. “As I said, nothing to do with you.”
The knife slid deeper. “Do you know what?” she said, fighting for some semblance of equilibrium, “I think you’re right—not asking you questions at all probably is the safest course of action. At least then I don’t have to hear you lie to me.”
“Darling, please,” he began, sliding his arms about her waist.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not now.”
Wisely, he retreated.
She turned her back to him once more, struggling not to cry. They lay there in the dark, both silent. She could feel his breathing on her neck, feel his eyes boring into her, but she refused to acknowledge him.
What had she been thinking, to believe that Giles might change for her? He was going to be exactly like all those men who told their wives only what they wanted to hear. Who lived separate lives. He would keep his secrets and add new ones, while she was expected to go on in her own sphere, entirely apart from him.
At least he was allowing her to write her books. It was probably more than she could have hoped for from any husband.
Except that she had hoped for more from him. She’d let herself be lulled into believing they could have a real marriage, that in time he would grow to trust her enough to tell her what was important to him. The loss of that hope was almost too much to bear.
She lay there, her stomach churning and her eyes stinging with unshed tea
rs. She hoped he really hadn’t been with a woman—that would destroy her. It did seem a bit too blatant for their wedding trip, even for him. Plus, he didn’t smell of French perfume. That tiny realization reassured her somewhat. He smelled of wine, but that wasn’t odd—if he’d really been doing business, a drink wasn’t unusual.
But then, why couldn’t he tell her about this “business”? It made no sense.
After a while she heard his breathing become even, and anger surged in her again. How could he sleep when there was this rift between them? Her heart was shattered, and he didn’t care. But then when had Giles ever cared about breaking her heart?
She couldn’t sleep—it was impossible. There was only one thing for it. Slipping from the bed, she lit a candle, then settled into the chair by the window.
She glanced over at him. He slept as innocent as a babe, his chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm that made her heart ache.
Such a handsome husband she’d got for herself. What was wrong with women that they let such things blind them? First, Mama, then her . . .
I’m not your father, Giles had claimed. But what if he was exactly her father? What would she do?
There was naught she could do. That was the trouble with marriage—once you were in it, you were trapped forever.
But how was she to go on with him when she felt this rip in the fabric of her soul?
She would simply have to find a way to go on. She couldn’t let him keep doing this to her. The trouble was that she had already let him get too far under her skin. She’d given up her freedom, while he’d given up nothing. So she must retreat, must find a way to protect herself.
There was only one thing that worked for that, only one thing that had sustained her through her parents’ deaths, through the weeks after Giles had first broken her heart, through the long, hard years of enduring public censure and gossip.
She took up her notebook and licked the tip of her pencil. Words bounced around in her head, fragments falling into place—bits from the trial, images from her morning rambles with Giles, the feel of her heart breaking inside her . . .
Slowly she began to write.
DURING HIS FIRST two nights with Minerva Giles had slept like a man drugged. Drugged by the pleasure of her in his bed, the warmth of her in his arms, the contentment that came of knowing someone well enough to sleep comfortably beside them.
But not last night. He’d awakened near two a.m. to find a candle lit. Remembering what she’d said about sometimes getting up to write, he’d forced himself to stay quiet, listening to the scratch of her pencil.
Once, he’d stolen a glance at her. She was crying, yet it was as if she didn’t know she was crying. She just kept scratching away, like an engraver with a hammer and graver, etching life into the inanimate.
Giles had burned to know what she was writing. Turning Rockton into an even worse villain, most likely.
It was probably what he deserved, yet he kept his silence. He was not going to drag her into this mess with Newmarsh, especially when the only way out of it might be to go back to living his double life. He couldn’t tell her about that—she wouldn’t approve when she realized what it would entail. Besides, he had a faint hope that Ravenswood and his superiors would agree to the blackmail without his having to give up his future for it.
For now, he could deal with her anger. She would get over it. She had to. They were married.
The next two times he awoke, she was still writing feverishly, but when he finally awoke again near dawn, he found her beside him in the bed, sleeping. For a moment, he just lay there, watching her. She was so beautiful. And too bloody smart and suspicious for her own good. He should have known he could never manage his meeting with Newmarsh without her catching on.
But devil take it, he was a man! He had a right to live his life without his wife nosing into his business. Father had never told Mother a damned thing about his financial affairs.
Yes, and that had certainly worked out well. Mother had been widowed at the age of fifty, forced into near poverty, and saved only by the sacrifice of her oldest son, who’d had to marry a deceitful bitch for money. But only after Giles had separated him from the love of his life, another heiress, who might have saved the family and herself if she’d married David, as everyone had expected.
Giles winced. He had a history of bungling things. Oh, sure, he’d done well by Ravenswood in his later years, and he was competent in the courtroom, but his early life kept coming back to haunt him. How could he endure the look on her face if she learned he’d done it again?
He couldn’t. Besides, she had a habit of writing things down that she shouldn’t. He turned over to stare at the notebook that lay on the table by the window. What had she written? Another scathing commentary on his life?
He glanced back to where Minerva still slept, then slipped from the bed. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just to make sure what she’d written. So he’d know how to act.
Stealthily he walked over to the table and opened the notebook. It took him a moment to decipher her appalling handwriting before he read, “Dear Reader, there are times in a woman’s life when—”
“What are you doing?” snapped Minerva from the bed.
Damn, she was a light sleeper. He looked up to find her glaring at him. “I was just curious about—”
“Give me that!” She practically leaped from the bed and dashed to his side to snatch up her notebook, cradling it to her chest like a small child. “You have no right!”
“Why?” he growled. “What are you writing now?”
“Nothing to do with you, don’t worry.” She glared at him through red-rimmed eyes, and guilt stabbed him. “If you can keep secrets, so can I.”
The words struck him like a blow to the chest. She was just giving tit for tat. That was to be expected. But it shocked him that it hurt so much. That the thought of her keeping secrets from him blasted a hole in his gut.
Well, he’d be damned if he let her know that. He schooled his expression to nonchalance. “I didn’t mean to upset you. If you don’t want me to read what you write, I won’t.”
His words came out more affronted than he would have liked, but she just sniffed and turned her back on him.
Her silence fell like a weight on his chest, and when she went behind the privacy screen to perform her ablutions and dress, he gritted his teeth. How long would she punish him? How long would he have to suffer her coolness?
It had better not be too bloody long. This wasn’t how he’d expected their marriage to work. He jerked his clothes on, now fully in a temper, though he wasn’t sure who he was angrier at—her or himself.
She came out from behind the screen wearing her shift, drawers, stockings, and untied corset. Pride made her chin stiffen as she stared at him. “Would you please help me with my corset? I think I can manage the gown myself.”
With a terse nod he did as she asked, though being so near when they were at odds was torture. He wanted to kiss her neck, to bury his face in her hair, to run his hands over the body he’d begun to know very well. He wanted to make love to her, even though he suspected that wasn’t the way to handle this.
That was the trouble. For the first time in years, he didn’t know how to behave. Should he try to jolly her out of her mood? Seduce her?
Given how she darted away from him when he was done with her corset, seduction wasn’t going to work just now. He would bide his time and wait for her mood to change. She couldn’t stay mad at him forever.
No? The last time you angered her, she kept you at arm’s length for nine years.
He scowled. That was different. They hadn’t shared a bed. She would get over this eventually. She had to.
They finished dressing in silence, both aware that they had to be on the steam packet in a short while. He itched to get back to London and find out what Ravenswood had to say about Newmarsh.
At least in London he wouldn’t have to sneak around. He’d always incorporated his meetings with
Ravenswood into his workday. He would send a note to Ravenswood tonight and meet the man early tomorrow.
Their ride on the steam packet seemed endless. He tried to take solace from the ebb and flow of the water, but he could only think of the woman beside him, so lovely and mute.
After hours of that, he could bear it no longer. As they neared the Thames estuary, he asked, “Are you never going to speak to me again?”
She cast him a long, shuttered glance. “Don’t be absurd.”
“I don’t want to be at odds with you.”
“Then don’t.”
Could it really be that easy? They’d just go on as if nothing had happened?
They were passing the Isle of Sheppey, so he tested his theory by telling her a story about him and his father taking a rowboat down the Thames to the isle to see an eccentric aunt of his who lived there. They’d found her digging for fossils in a marsh, wearing men’s trousers and a large hat.
As he described his old aunt for Minerva in outrageous terms, he coaxed a smile from her, then a laugh.
Relief coursed through him. He’d been right. Minerva couldn’t stay mad at him.
They got through the rest of the trip more easily, and by the time they reached home, she seemed more her usual self. So he decided to press his luck and take her to bed. To his immense satisfaction, she complied.
His satisfaction didn’t last long, however. It wasn’t that she didn’t participate in the lovemaking. She wasn’t cold to him or angry. And clearly she found her release at the end.
But something was missing. There was none of the exuberance she’d shown on their first two nights together, none of the closeness. And when it was over, she turned her back to him and fell asleep, as if she’d just finished with a duty and now was done with him.
He told himself that, too, would end eventually. In the days to come, she would get over her annoyance with him, and everything would go back to the way it was.
How to Woo a Reluctant Lady Page 24