For the next quarter hour, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantel clock as he turned the box over and over, working the intricate pattern of sliding pieces. Finally he slid the piece into place that released the top of the box. At last. The evidence he needed would, in mere seconds, be his. Simon drew a deep breath then slowly slid back the top panel.
And stared into an empty cavity.
He frowned, slipping his fingers all around the inside the chamber, but it was indeed empty. Bloody hell.
Where was the letter? The proof he needed to save his neck? His lips flattened into a grim line. It seemed clear that Mrs. Ralston had found the evidence before he could.
Why would she remove it? The fact that she must have done so certainly pointed directly toward guilt of some sort. Had she acted alone in the plot to kill Ridgemoor, or was she in collaboration with others? What role did she play in this circle of death closing in on him? And what the bloody hell would she have done with the information? Hidden it somewhere else in the house?
Another quick examination of the box confirmed his belief that no other opening existed. With a sigh of frustration and disgust, he slid the panels back into place, replaced the box among the sheer underclothes and closed the drawer.
What next? Where to look? His gaze landed on the night table, and he strode across the room. A bouquet of flowers in a small crystal vase rested on the table’s polished wood surface, along with an oil lamp and a book. Simon peered at the title. A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore.
Interesting. He’d noted that same title during his search of the library. There had recently been some scandal attached to the book he remembered, although he hadn’t paid particular attention. Still, it was curious that Mrs. Ralston would possess two copies. Could the letter from the box be tucked inside? He picked up the volume and leafed through the pages, but unfortunately his hope was in vain. He was about to close the book when a phrase caught his attention and he frowned. Tie up her man?
Turning so he could better capture the light streaming through the window, he read: Today’s Modern Woman should not hesitate to insist upon getting what she wants, be it in the drawing room or in the bedchamber—even if she has to tie up her man to get it. Indeed, tying him up in the bedchamber will most assuredly lead to very intriguing results…
Simon’s brows shot upward. Clearly he’d been mistaken to assume that a ladies’ guide would merely contain information about fashion and etiquette.
“No wonder there was a scandal,” he murmured.
An image flashed through his mind…of his hands being tied with a silken cord to a bedpost. He couldn’t see his captor’s face, but her voice was ripe with sensual promise when she whispered, “You’re going to give me everything I want.”
He blinked and the image evaporated, leaving him feeling slightly stunned and—he winced and shifted—more than slightly aroused. Unable to stop himself, he flipped to a different page and read: Today’s Modern Woman must realize the importance of fashion in her quest for intimate fulfillment. Simon nodded. Ah, yes. This is more like what he’d expected. There are times to wear a fancy ballgown, times to wear a negligée and times to wear nothing at all…
So much for what he’d expected.
Another image materialized in his mind, this one of the same woman who’d tied his hands, her face still blurry and indistinguishable, shrugging her negligée from her shoulders. The satin puddled at her feet, leaving her bare to his avid gaze. Coral nipples erect, the pale curls between her legs glistening, she stepped from the pool of material and walked slowly toward him with a sinful sway of her hips. “Where have you, been?” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you…”
Simon shook his head to dispel the sensuous image. Bloody hell, no wonder this book had caused such an uproar. He’d never read anything like it. Of course, he wasn’t in the habit of reading ladies’ guides. At least, he hadn’t been, until now. Even as his mind ordered him to put down the damn book and resume his search, he found himself again turning the page. Just as he peered at the words he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening then closing.
Bloody damn hell.
A feminine voice softly crooned, “Hello, sweet Sophia. Did you miss me?” Sweet Sophia answered with a loud meow. “I missed you, too. We’ll play tomorrow. I’m tired and off to bed.”
Double bloody damn hell.
2
FURIOUS that he’d allowed himself to be so uncharacteristically distracted, Simon quickly replaced the book then glanced around the room. The only two exit possibilities were the door—not a viable option, or one of the two windows, offering at least a thirty-foot drop to the ground—not a healthy option. Besides the potentially fatal fall, he’d have to leave the window open and she’d know someone had been in her chamber. Of course, unless he moved his arse—immediately—she was going to discover that anyway.
Bloody aggravating woman. Why couldn’t she have a nice balcony off her bedchamber? And have stayed away for several more hours?
Ignoring the screen and the wardrobe—both of which she’d undoubtedly use in the course of readying herself for bed, he moved swiftly toward the statue in the corner. He’d no sooner secreted himself in the deep shadows behind the marble woman than the bedchamber door opened.
Inwardly cursing the rotten luck that had brought Mrs. Ralston home so early, he remained still and prayed that she’d get into bed quickly and fall asleep immediately. From his hiding place, he watched her close the door behind her then move to the bedside table where she lit the oil lamp. Surrounded by a soft golden glow, she pushed back the hood on the dark cape she wore.
Simon blinked in surprise. Mrs. Ralston was much younger than he’d imagined. Based on the meager information he’d been able to gather in the short time he’d had to investigate, he’d discovered she’d retired from the life of being a mistress a year ago when Ridgemoor had ended their arrangement. That news had led Simon to assume she’d aged and lost her beauty. Between that and the fact that the earl was over fifty and she’d been his mistress for a decade, he’d envisioned a woman in her forties, at the least. But this woman didn’t appear much older than thirty, if she was that.
And she certainly hadn’t lost her looks. The woman standing before him in the halo of golden lamplight was nothing short of stunning. The combination of high cheekbones and full lips lent her an exotic yet delicate beauty. He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, but given her porcelain skin and upswept honey-blond hair, he’d wager blue. He found himself wondering if they’d more resemble a cloudless summer sky or a stormy sea. Or perhaps a shard of ice.
All thoughts of ice vanished in the next instant when she unfastened her cloak. The garment slid from her shoulders to reveal that she wore only a chemise. A wet chemise. A wet chemise that clung to her body as if it had been painted on her skin—with transparent paint.
Simon’s breath halted, and for several seconds he completely forget where he was. Who she was. And how much was at stake. His conscience—an inner voice he’d bludgeoned into silence long ago—unexpectedly coughed to life and informed him that honor and decency demanded he avert his gaze. He immediately consigned his conscience back to the depths from where it had crawled and kept his eyeballs steadfastly trained on the vision before him. After all, she was a person of suspicion. For reasons he’d yet to discover, she’d taken what he’d come to steal before he could rob her of it—the letter that would save his life. It was imperative he learn all he could about her.
And God knows he was learning plenty, given the way that wet material clung to her. His gaze roamed slowly downward, lingering over her firm, full breasts topped with erect nipples. The curve of her waist flared to generous hips then tapered to shapely thighs. The curls between her legs were the same golden honey shade as her hair.
Clearly Mrs. Ralston had indulged in a dip in the hot springs. It was well documented that taking the waters
was good for the body, and she absolutely was testament to that.
She moistened her lips and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. He squinted through the shadows. Were her lips naturally so plush or were they kiss-swollen? Had someone joined her at the hot springs? Did Mrs. Ralston have a lover? Perhaps the artist from the neighboring cottage? Or an accomplice who’d helped her murder Ridgemoor? Surely a woman who looked like her wouldn’t lack for male companionship. An unexpected mental image flickered through his mind…Mrs. Ralston, standing in the gently bubbling water…and himself, joining her—
“Meow.”
The sound cut off Simon’s unsettling fantasy and his gaze jerked downward. Sophia slid into the shadows and once again twined herself around his boots. Bloody hell. Clearly the cat possessed the same unfortunate habit as her owner—turning up in places she wasn’t wanted. And wasn’t that just like a female? Give one the smallest amount of attention then they kept pestering you for more.
He looked up and stifled a groan. With her cloak folded over her arm, Mrs. Ralston moved toward him. His breath halted—partly due to the great risk of discovery and partly because the sight of her rendered his lungs incapable of functioning. He’d seen many alluring sights in his life, but he’d be hard-pressed to name any that could compare to the sight of a wet, nearly naked Genevieve Ralston.
And speaking of hard…his gaze flicked down to the erection straining against his snug breeches. How bloody delightful. It was humiliating enough that he might very well be discovered. To be found in such a condition was completely unacceptable. He tried to will away his arousal, but with his gaze locked on her luscious form once again, he utterly failed. By God, Ridgemoor must have been jaded indeed to have tired of this woman. Had she sought revenge by murdering him?
Or perhaps he hadn’t tired of her as rumors had suggested—perhaps she’d betrayed him and that had precipitated Ridgemoor’s swift ending of their relationship. As Simon well knew, women could be perfidious creatures. And he had no doubt there was more to this particular woman than her simple existence as a former mistress who’d retired to the country. At the minimum, she possessed a box that contained information vital to Simon and many other people—or at least, it had contained that information, until the box had come into her possession. What possible reason other than guilt of some sort could have driven her to remove the letter?
She laid her cloak over the back of a wing chair near the fireplace and he held his breath. For several tension-filled seconds, she stood so close to him he had but to reach out his hand to touch her arm.
“What are you doing in the corner, Sophia?” she murmured. “I hope you haven’t found a mouse.”
No, not a mouse.
Sophia unwrapped herself from Simon’s boots and trotted toward her mistress. After giving the cat an affectionate pat, Mrs. Ralston crossed to her dresser and removed a clean chemise from the drawer, while Sophia jumped onto the bed and settled herself in the center of the counterpane. Simon pulled in a slow, deep breath of relief, noting Mrs. Ralston had left behind a hint of her scent—the same soft rose fragrance that filled the crystal bottle on her dresser.
Standing with her back to him, she peeled the wet chemise down her body, giving a slow wriggle that had him clenching his hands. A fine layer of sweat misted his forehead and, although he continued to fight to control his body’s reaction to her, it was a battle well and truly lost when she bent over to pick up the garment, a move that hiked her shapely bottom in the air and afforded him an unimpeded view of her feminine charms—a heart-stopping, concentration-destroying vision that drove every thought from his mind, including the fact that the verdict of hanged by the neck until dead could figure prominently in his near future.
As he gritted his teeth and bit back a groan, she pulled the fresh chemise over her head, then walked to the wardrobe and, thank God, pulled out a satin robe which she donned. The soft material clung to her curves like a second skin, but at least they were covered. He hoped now she’d go to bed.
Instead, she returned to the dresser and massaged cream from one of the pots into her hands, wincing several times as if in pain. Then she donned a pair of gloves from the top drawer. The ritual struck him as odd. Did all women wear gloves to bed? Any time he’d spent the night with a woman, he kept her too busy and too sated to think about anything as mundane as hand cream and gloves.
His hope that Mrs. Ralston would now retire was dashed when she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, releasing a curtain of shimmering blond curls that fell to her hips. He immediately imagined running his hands through those spiral tresses, wrapping them around his fist. Pulling her closer—
He briefly squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the unexpected, unwanted image. What the hell was wrong with him? Bad enough he should be entertaining fantasies while on a mission, but it was completely unacceptable that he do so when the subject of those fantasies was a woman who well might be implicated in a deadly plot.
She emitted a low groan and his eyes snapped open to find her tying off the end of the braid she’d made with a pale blue ribbon while he’d been lustfully daydreaming. Before he could decide why she’d made such a sound, she again walked toward him. His every muscle tensed. Had she detected his presence? Sensed she was being watched? Bloody hell, it seemed as if she were staring directly at him. If she discovered him, he’d have no choice but to subdue her. A mental picture instantly formed in his mind…yet the vision wasn’t of him subduing her, but rather of her tying him…with pale-blue ribbons. To her bed.
Damn it. That bloody Ladies’Guide had utterly corrupted his mind.
To his relief she settled herself on the dainty chair before her escritoire, but his ease quickly evaporated when she lit the single candle on the desk. Light flared and he shrank as far into the shadow cast by the marble statue as possible. What the bloody hell was she doing?
She silently answered his question when she withdrew a sheet of vellum from the drawer and reached for the quill pen. In spite of his wish that she’d retire so he could escape, Simon’s interest quickened. She was going to write a letter. One that might provide him with vital information? It seemed an odd time to compose a missive—unless one was being secretive.
Simon watched her write smoothly for several minutes, but then her movements began to slow. Her brow furrowed and her lips pressed tightly together. She bent over the vellum with what he first assumed was concentration on her task, but then his gaze dropped to her hand that held the quill. She now gripped the instrument in an awkward manner. After writing several more words, she stopped then slowly flexed her gloved fingers as if she were in pain. Given her pinched expression, it was obvious something was amiss. Had she suffered some sort of accident that had damaged her hands?
She wrote with that same pained expression for another minute or two, then set the pen back in the holder and sanded the vellum. After slipping the paper into the drawer, she blew out the candle, rose and walked to her bed. He watched her remove her robe then extinguish the oil lamp. Bathed in a swathe of silver moonlight, she pulled back the counterpane and settled herself between the sheets. Sophia raised her head for several seconds, then resumed her curled-up position. Mrs. Ralston closed her eyes. She looked like an innocent angel—but Simon knew better than to accept outward appearances.
Soon he detected the sound of her slow, even breathing. He waited an additional few minutes, then, satisfied she was indeed asleep, he slipped from his hiding place and silently left the room. As he closed her front door behind him, he vowed that he would discover not only what Mrs. Genevieve Ralston had done with his letter and why, but what all her secrets were.
Especially whether those secrets included murder.
3
London is hectic and exciting, and married life is wonderful. The only thing missing is you, my dear friend. I wish you would come to town to visit…
THE WORDS of the letter blurred as tears flooded Genevieve Ralston’s eyes, tears she quickly brushed away when
she heard heavy footfalls in the corridor. Seconds later her giant of a manservant, Baxter, entered the sitting room.
“Wanted to let ye know that—” His words cut off, and setting his beefy fists on his hips, he narrowed his eyes. “Yer upset. Wot’s wrong?” Before Genevieve could answer, his gaze dropped to the letter she held and understanding dawned in his dark eyes. “Yer sad from missin’ yer friend Lady Catherine.”
Genevieve swallowed the ball of misery tightening her throat and forced a light laugh. “A bit.”
“More than a bit,” Baxter said, his voice gruff. He studied her for several seconds with an expression that made her feel as transparent as glass. “Ye ain’t been the same since she got married and moved to London. Been three months. I hate seein’ ye so unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy,” Genevieve said, walking to the desk and slipping the letter into a drawer. It was true, she told herself. She was merely lonely. Before Catherine had moved to London, hardly a day had gone by when they hadn’t seen each other. But now…Catherine’s absence left Genevieve floundering. The days that used to be filled with laughter, conversation and confidences with her best friend now echoed with silence and loneliness and far too much introspection. She now had too much time to think about Richard and the pain of being cast aside after ten years. The arrival of the puzzle box had only made things worse. As had his cryptic note: “You’re the only one I can trust. Keep this safe and I will come for it as soon as I can.”
That brief missive had struck her like a hard slap, leaving her confused and angry. Why hadn’t he sent the box to the younger, exquisite mistress he’d replaced her with? She could still see the pity, and worse, disgust in his eyes when he’d looked at her imperfect hands the last time she’d seen him, when he’d rejected her touch and attempts to seduce him. Two days later, he’d abruptly ended their arrangement, without even the courage or the decency to tell her to her face. Instead he’d sent a curt note, along with a parting monetary gift. As if money could soothe the hurt and pain and humiliation.
Touch Me Page 2