Amanda did not feign misunderstanding. “No, it was my fault, tossing myself at you that way. I was upset. I apologize.”
“Your discomposure was natural. I, ah, wished to comfort you.”
“I know. Thank you.”
He did not feel absolved. “You should have stopped me.”
She gathered the jewels back into the silk pouch. “I did not want to.”
Her words, in the blue of truth, set his blood to boiling again. He leaned away, to put distance between them.
Amanda stared at her hands in her lap, to keep from reaching for him. “I was forward.”
He took her hand. “Never think that. I was a brute. You are a lovely woman and I am only human.”
“Thank you. I am human too, and you are a lovely man.”
He laughed, but raised her hand to his lips. “What, with scars and a limp and a battered nose?”
“With a good heart and the most beautiful eyes in all of England.”
He leaned over and stroked her eyelids. “No, yours are much finer. Like soft brown velvet a man could sink into.”
She smiled back at him, relishing the gentle touch. “Mine are common brown eyes. And they are red and swollen, I’d wager.”
He lowered his gaze. “No, but your lips are.”
Now she blushed. “You really must think me a wanton. I swear I do not kiss every gentleman I meet!”
He stood, thinking of her tender, inexperienced kisses. “I think you are brave and good, and I think I had better take myself off before I forget that I am a gentleman and you are an innocent.”
She rose also, but took his hand. “But Nanny and her sister are cooking dinner for you and Daniel. You have to stay.”
The invitation to stay was too tempting by half, but he was staring at her lips again, thinking of their taste, not of the cock-a-leekie soup.
As if his eyes drew her closer, Amanda took a step nearer him, so her breasts almost touched his coat. Almost was not good enough. This must be the animal magnetism she had heard about. She took another step, and his arms came around her.
This time the kiss involved tongues and teeth and lips and sharing breaths and sighs. Her hands moved to his back. His moved to her front, to the sides of her breasts, making her gasp with surprise, then groan with pleasure. Yes, she thought, this was far better than being patted on the head and told to go off to wash, good girl, Amanda.
She was a woman, and he was a man. She could feel his virility through her skirts and his trousers. She was doing that to him. She felt the answering warmth between her thighs, in the pit of her stomach, down to her toes. The heat was nothing to the fires of hell she would burn in for all eternity, and at that moment Amanda did not care.
“More tea, my lord? More— Oh, my!”
They had not heard Dodd come into the room at all. Rex shielded Amanda from the butler’s prying eyes, without taking his arms from around her and said, “Miss Carville is upset. The last few days have taken their toll.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what I said that day you walked in here, all in a huff. My Nell was overset, she was.”
Rex pointed toward the door. “Tea, Dodd. And brandy.”
Amanda’s knees were so weak she would collapse into a puddle if Rex did not hold her, so she clung to him.
His self-discipline was so weak he folded his arms around her. His bad leg could not support them both so they fell forward to the sofa, which was far more comfortable anyway.
“Still overset, is she?” Dodd set the tray down with a clatter.
“Out!”
Dodd paused at the door. “Um, you were not going to mention my Nell to the countess, were you, my lord?” He waggled his eyebrows at what he could see of Miss Carville, half-behind and half-beneath the viscount.
“That’s blackmail!”
“That’s a narrow sofa.”
Amanda giggled, a sound so enchanting that Rex simply had to kiss her again, even knowing Dodd had left the parlor door open behind him.
“He never liked me,” she said a few heartbeats—heavy, pounding, rapid heartbeats—later. “Heaven knows what he’ll think of me now.”
“He will show you the proper respect. He likes his position.” So did Rex, with almost all of him touching almost all of Amanda. Lud, what was happening to him? Rex asked himself with the last vestiges of intelligence left to him. All of his self-preservation, all of his precepts, were flown out the window, along with his wits. But his blood, ah, that was rushing from his neck to his nethers, where he was alert and attentive. His body knew she was his, his for the taking, his for the pleasuring. His to wed?
Hell, no! He jumped to his feet, pulling her with him. “This is wrong! I am not a stag in rut, a randy goat. And the door is open. I mean, I do have principles. I have—”
“I have it, a whole bucket full of raspberry ice!” Daniel and Verity raced into the room. “Hurry, you two, before there’s nothing left but a puddle of juice. I saw Nanny and she swears we will spoil our suppers, but who cares? Didn’t she always say the same, and didn’t I always clear my whole plate? I say, Amanda’s not still weeping, is she?”
She was giggling again. They both said no.
“Then why are you still holding her?”
Now that was a damned good question.
Chapter Nineteen
Nanny clucked her tongue. She knew Amanda’s blond curls weren’t all every which way when she’d combed them. And she knew she did not apply any of the countess’s face paint to get the young lady’s cheeks so rosy or her lips so red. “Lady Royce sent a message that she was on her way,” she told Rex as he was leaving. “And not a moment too soon, I’d warrant,” she muttered under her breath, making him feel six years old again.
Heaven knew that what he’d done—worse, what he’d almost done—was more than a boyish prank. The problem was, he could not trust his unruly body not to do it again. The only solution was to keep his distance, so he dragged Daniel out to the Grand Hotel.
“I hear they set an excellent table,” he told his cousin.
“But I had my heart set on a rare roast!”
Well, Rex had his heart set on a bare breast, and he was not going to get his wish, either. “You were the one who said we had to be seen out and about, on the town, to preserve Miss Carville’s reputation. Besides, Lady Royce should be here soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, so I can move to a hotel. I thought I’d look over the Grand and see if they will take dogs. It’s not as particular as the Clarendon or the Pulteney, I hear. You are welcome to stay with me, unless you prefer that rat’s nest you were living in.”
“What? Move away from Royce House just when your mother is bringing her cook back with her? That’s as cork-brained as the idea they’d take Verity at any decent place. She isn’t a dog, she’s a four-legged feed bag.”
“Then I shall find rooms somewhere until I can return to the country.”
“We could always stay with your mother. It’d be all right and tight, with a countess chaperoning the lass.”
“No” was all Rex said.
“That bad, eh?”
Rex did not know if Daniel meant living under the same roof as Lady Royce, or keeping his hands off Amanda. “That bad.”
They stopped at McCann’s Club first. A hunched-over old man in the club’s livery and white wig stepped out of the shadows, keeping his eyes deferentially lowered. “A message for Lord Rexford,” he said, handing over a sealed note. He bowed and backed away.
“Wait! Tell your master—”
The man was gone, too fast for such a relic. While Daniel went to see who was in the card room—and have a free glass of wine—Rex broke the seal on the letter and unfolded the single sheet. On it were written the same eight initials he had given Major Harrison, the ones from Sir Frederick’s journal. Beside each were one to three names, with question marks beside some, addresses under others.
L.B. could be the banker, Lloyd Breverton, the note indicated, but it could also stand fo
r Lydia Burton, the infamous madam of a high-class bordello.
According to the spymaster, the initials L.C. could stand for a Lysander Cord whom Rex did not know, but he lived at the Albany, so could be assumed a gentleman.
J.J. was Joseph Johnston, with two locations, one near the docks, another in a newly fashionable section of Kensington; or Joshua Jacobs, a jeweler on Bond Street. Rex would bet on Johnston, the wealthy merchant who now supposedly had Sir Frederick’s valet in his employ.
G.C. had only one name beside it, George Cuthbert, with a question mark. Rex whistled. Cuthbert was second son to a prominent member of the Cabinet, and a former officer in the navy. No one knew why he’d been shipped home, which silence was unusual in itself, but there had been rumors.
R.V. might be any of three men, only one known to Rex. Roland Vaughan had been a university classmate of his and Rex liked the fellow, despite his idiosyncrasies. Vaughan was decent enough, if one avoided him in dark corners. One of the others had an Esq. after his name, another lawyer; and the last had Fleet Prison as his address.
T.H. was followed by two names, both with minor titles, both of Rex’s father’s generation.
The single name under A.B. was well known to Rex. Aldritch Bowdecker had been a fellow student at Eton, some years ahead of Rex, who exulted in tormenting the younger boys. The Aide’s question mark next to his name meant nothing. Rex thought the man capable of any cruelty, any misdeed.
The last set of initials on the list, N.T., also had one name: Nigel Turlowe, with no question mark.
These were obviously people the Aide’s office held in suspicion, but nowhere did the note say suspicion of what. Spying, smuggling . . . hell, they could be white slavers for all Rex knew—and for all Harrison, or Harris, told him. The only directive the man gave was written in an elegant hand at the bottom of the page. Ask questions.
Rex knew what was meant was get answers, get the truth.
He just might get the answer to another question at Mrs. Burton’s establishment, Rex decided. Or at least a different hunger satisfied.
Daniel insisted on dinner first. “And it won’t hurt to be seen about, remember? The more people who notice us, the better.”
The wine and food at the Grand Hotel was excellent, the company less so. A group of foxed gentlemen at a table at Rex’s back were loud and crude, belittling the waiter and demanding faster service than the poor man could provide. They took offense when Daniel and Rex were served first.
Daniel put his wineglass down and stood to his full, intimidating height, quieting the men for the length of the fish course. Then they started to whisper, none too softly. Rex easily made out the words “Inquisitors,” “murderess,” and “cripple.” He set his own glass aside, stood, and turned.
“Why, speak of the devil,” he muttered, spotting Aldritch Bowdecker at the center of the group, food stains spotting his neckcloth, his small eyes sunken and bloodshot. The man looked far older than his years, raddledand wrinkled, and far meaner than he used to be, if possible. Rex did not bother with pleasantries. One did not bow to a boa constrictor. “Did you know Sir Frederick Hawley?” he asked.
Surprised at the blunt question, Bowdecker answered. “Of course I did. We all did.” He shifted his beady eyes to his companions.
The others nodded. One raised his glass. “To Sir Frederick, may he rest in peace.”
Another guffawed. “Not where he is now, I’d bet.”
The fourth man raised his glass in a toast to the wench who’d sent the baronet to his just desserts.
Rex looked directly at Bowdecker. “Miss Carville did not kill him. Did you?”
The man stood up with a roar. “What kind of question is that? I’ll murder you, you scurvy, scarred dog. Trying to blame me for your whore’s crime!” He pushed his table aside, silver and china and food gone flying. “You always were a sneaky little rat. Word is you still were, in the army. No one trusted you, I heard; not the Spanish, the French, or our own troops.”
Daniel sighed as Rex took his coat off. “My roast beef.”
“My reputation—and Miss Carville’s.”
“My dining room!” a voice with a French accent called out. No one would have listened except for the seven undercooks in clean white aprons lined up behind the chef, meat cleavers and carving knives in their hands. “Out! I serve only the best. The best food to the best patrons, no? My soup, she is on the floor? Out, or I call the Watch!” He advanced on the man who dared to show his shirtsleeves in the finest restaurant in London. Or in Paris, as it used to be.
Bowdecker’s associates were already dragging him away, out of the chef’s sight, before a challenge or a punch could be thrown. Bowdecker was known to be a terrible shot, a clumsy fencer, and a coward when it came to facing someone his size, even someone with a limp. They saved his life, for another day.
Rex and Daniel left, apologizing to the gaping diners at other tables on their way out. Daniel lifted a lamb chop off a lady’s plate. He shrugged when she screamed. “She was already thinking we were savages. Could you try a little subtlety next time?”
Next time was at Bancroft’s, a private men’s club that let in anyone with the right price. They were said to serve unwatered wine and well-cooked meals, along with high-stakes games in the back rooms and clean apartments above. Before they could be seated, a gentleman called out to them, inviting them to share their table. Roland Vaughan and a younger man were smiling in welcome. “My dear boy, how happy I am to see you recovering! Such sad news, when you were reported injured. Why, I could not sleep for days, could I, Harold? And your poor face! What a tragedy. I have the perfect concealing cream, don’t I, Harold?”
“Um, I don’t think I am hungry after all, Rex. I’ll just take a peek at the dice tables, shall I?” Daniel looked at the glasses of negus at the men’s table, a woman’s libation. “And I’ll order us a bottle of brandy while I am at it.”
“I’ll join you in a moment. Roland, did you know Sir Frederick Hawley?”
The young man screwed up his face as if he’d swallowed a lemon. Vaughan answered yes, to his regret. “Unpleasant chap, don’t you know. I always avoided his company.”
“Did you kill him?”
Tears sprang to Roland’s eyes. “Oh, how could you think such a thing of me? I thought we were friends.”
“I take it that is a no?”
“Why, I would not kill a spider in my bathing tub, would I, Harold?”
“But did you kill Sir Frederick, yes or no?”
“No!” The man started sobbing, the nearby patrons frowned at Rex, Harold offered a lace-edged handkerchief, and the manager wanted to know what Rex meant by bothering one of his best customers and favorite residents.
“I meant no harm. My apologies.” He tossed a bank-note on the table. “Have another drink on me. A pleasure, Mr., ah, Harold.”
Daniel was not happy to be leaving so soon.
Rex was not happy to have made a grown man cry. “You drink too much anyway.”
“Well, I need some kind of sustenance, don’t I? I still haven’t had my dinner.”
“Let us try Lidell’s.” That was a place frequented by navy men on leave.
George Cuthbert was there, as Rex had hoped. The former ship captain sat in a corner with a half-empty bottle. No one was near, no one spoke to him. Rex headed in that direction.
Daniel took one look at Rex’s target. “Uh oh. I won’t bother taking a seat. Or ordering supper.”
“I won’t be long.” He neared Cuthbert’s corner, knowing every eye in the place was on him. “Sir, I have a question for you.”
Cuthbert looked up, trying to focus his eyes. “Rexford, is it? One of the Aide’s boys, eh? And they say I did some dirty deeds. Hah! But you’re the one got the commendations, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, and a bad leg and a scar to go with them. My question is this: Did you kill Sir Frederick Hawley?”
“I wish I did. I wish I did.” He threw his bottle across the
room, to smash into a window, sending glass flying and officers cursing. “I wish I did!”
“I wish you did, too, sir. Good night.”
Silence and disapproval followed Rex as he limped out of the club. Out in the street, he looked around to get his bearings. “We are near Lydia Burton’s house of accommodation. What say we go speak to her?”
“I thought we were going to eat first? Do you think she serves supper? If she does, can you try to show a little finesse so we can stay to enjoy it? And the girls, too, of course. Diplomacy, that’s the ticket, old man. Mrs. Burton fancies herself a lady.”
The building was undistinguished among its prosperous neighbors, the decor was as elegant as Lady Royce’s, and the madam was dressed in the height of fashion, except for the depth of her décolletage. She was delighted to see them. Gentlemen with money were always welcome, no matter their reputations. After the pleasantries, Mrs. Burton waved her manicured, be-ringed hand at a cluster of females sitting on gilt chairs at the side of the room, fanning themselves and giggling like debutantes at Almack’s. “May I introduce you to one of my friends?”
The girls were trying to appear young and innocent and ladylike, and failing dismally. Rex turned away. He did not want a woman who reminded him of Amanda; the whole point of coming here tonight was to forget about her, and to let the world know she was not his mistress. He raised Mrs. Burton’s soft white hand to his lips. “Only the best will do, madame.”
She tittered. “The best is très expensive, my lord.”
He smiled. “And worth every pound, I am sure.” He carefully tucked an extravagant sum between her extraordinary breasts. She signaled for a maid to bring him a glass of champagne while she informed her assistant.
Daniel walked by and whispered, “Remember, finesse.”
“Do you want to ask her?”
“Hell no.” Daniel already had a brandy bottle in one hand and a redhead in the other. “This little lady is more my type.” The little lady was taller than Rex and broader, and evidently more appetizing than the tiny tea sandwiches Mrs. Burton was serving.
Truly Yours Page 17