“He’s murdering someone in there!” she whispered in horror. Then something about the shouting struck her as familiar, and with dawning dread, she recognized Mr. Hawkins’s voice. “No,” she amended. “Someone’s murdering him!” With a low cry, Georgiana rushed toward the rear entrance, intent upon stopping the carnage. No matter that he was a thief and a contemptible creature, she could not stand by while Mr. Hawkins met his end.
“No! Wait!” Ashdowne called to her softly, but Georgiana was in no mood for caution. The door swung open easily, and she entered the dim kitchen, where the stale odors of food mixed with a rather overwhelming reek of perfume. She paused for but a moment to catch her breath when Hawkins’s harsh shout rent the air. Hurrying toward the sound, Georgiana halted at the threshold of a small, rather tawdry room and stared in astonishment.
The good vicar, so stoic and superior during their brief conversations, was bent over a red velvet chair, his naked behind sticking up in the air. Standing over him was a woman, dressed in a bizarre costume and wielding a whip. It was such an incredible scene that Georgiana made no further move to aid him, and she wondered why he continued to remain prone, for he was not bound in any way.
In fact, he appeared to be welcoming the woman’s punishment, which Georgiana could see now was no ordinary whip, but one made of soft material that did not seem to be causing any damage to the vicar’s stiff rear. He wiggled his posterior, as if eager for the treatment, even as he howled and begged for mercy.
For her part, the woman, dressed in high, tassled boots, some sort of tight military coat and little else, appeared to be wholly bored by the exercise. She had a real whip that she cracked loudly against the floor, while, in between yawns, she used the paltry substitute upon Hawkins.
The whole situation was so shocking yet absurd that Georgiana was caught between a gasp and a laugh and, struck speechless, she simply stood frozen in her place until she felt the heat of a hand against the small of her back. It was Ashdowne, of course, but Georgiana’s nerves were strained to the limit, and she jumped in startlement, drawing the attention of the scantily clad woman.
She turned toward them, her expression one of irritation rather than horror at being caught in such circumstances. “Here now, only one customer at a time,” she said. Angrily she turned back toward the vicar’s bum. “If this is your idea, you can forget it right now. I work alone! I’m an artist and won’t have none of your bloomin’ orgies!”
“What?” Hawkins’s head lifted, and he choked in outrage, yanking up his trousers as he struggled to gain his footing. “What are you doing here?” he cried, gaping at Georgiana and Ashdowne. He turned upon his companion. “If you think you can blackmail me, I’ve news for you, wench. You’ll not get a farthing from me!”
“Hold now, gent! I don’t know nothing about these two!” she said, throwing up hands that still gripped the whips.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” Georgiana said, sensing that her intervention was necessary. “But I am investigating a certain theft, and I have reason to believe that you know something about it.”
“Me?” the woman squealed. “I don’t know nothing about any thievery, miss. I just do what they pay me to, and if they happen to lose a bit of change when their trousers are down, well, then, I can hardly be blamed for it, can I?”
“Be at ease, madam, for it is not you we wish to speak with, but your client,” Ashdowne said, stepping forward. Leaning close, he said something to the woman, and Georgiana suspected he slipped her some money, too, for when he moved back, she was all smiles.
“Well, then, I’ll just leave you to do your, uh, business, shall I?” she said, exiting the room with no further protestations.
Hawkins, however, was livid. “See here, what do you think you’re doing?” he charged, though it was hard for him to maintain a dignified stance while gripping his trousers.
In any event, Ashdowne was wholly unaffected by his blustering. “Is this how you lost your last position?” he asked in a deceptively soft voice. He strolled forward to finger the small whip that the woman had left behind, then pinned Hawkins with a contemptuous stare. “By getting a little too close to your female parishioners?”
“I did not! It was all Lord Fallow’s fault! I was just comforting and attending his wife, especially during his long absences, when he suddenly took affront and tossed me out for no good reason,” Hawkins replied. As if remembering himself, he drew himself up straighter, though one hand still held the fall of his trousers. “And what I do in private is no one’s business except my own!”
“As long as you’re not entertaining someone else’s wife,” Ashdowne said dryly.
“Be that as it may,” Georgiana interrupted, “our concern here is with Lady Culpepper’s necklace. If you return it at once, we shall try to persuade her not to press charges in the case.”
Hawkins gaped at her in a dumbfounded way that sent a sense of foreboding skittering up her spine, for either the man was a consummate actor or he knew nothing of the theft. Unwilling to accept the latter conclusion, Georgiana lifted her chin. “It is quite obvious that you harbor a dislike for Lady Culpepper—”
Hawkins cut her off with a fierce snort. “It’s the entire class I hate, a bunch of lying hypocrites, lording their wealth over the rest of us,” he said, with a discreet glare in Ashdowne’s direction. “But I did not take her necklace! How could I? I was there at the ball the whole time, not climbing up the side of the building! If you ask me, the blessed thing was never even taken. The old witch is probably collecting the insurance money for it, while selling off the pieces.”
Georgiana realized this was not the first time she had heard Hawkins tender such a theory. And, as an impartial investigator, she had to consider the possibility that his accusation might be true.
Thankfully, while she was lost in thought, her assistant stepped in. “Perhaps you would care to tell us exactly where you were at the time of the theft,” Ashdowne suggested.
Hawkins eyed the marquis with undisguised loathing. “Why me, my lord? There were plenty of other people there. Any one of them could just as well have committed the crime. Yet, you choose to accost me. Why? Is this some sort of retribution for my views upon the aristocracy, or is it another one of Lord Fallow’s rebukes?” Rigid with fury, the vicar finally managed to button his trousers. “Well, he can’t blame me for this! I was with a certain lady in the linen closet.”
One dark brow inched upward on Ashdowne’s face. “Indeed?”
“Indeed!” Hawkins replied. “And lest you think I am lying, just ask the woman herself. It was Mrs. Howard!”
Georgiana started in surprise at his admission, for she knew the lady, as well as Mr. Howard, her husband, but Hawkins showed no evidence of embarrassment over his behavior. The fellow certainly deserved to be whipped, she thought, though since he enjoyed it, the punishment was hardly fitting.
“And now, if you will excuse me,” he said. “I will thank you to leave me alone!” Drawing together the shreds of his dignity, the vicar turned and strode through the doorway with a stiff stride, unaware that his shirt hung loose down his backside, flapping as he walked.
Georgiana stared after him, and the manner of his gait, coupled with the dingy shirttail, was too much for her. A giggle welled up in her chest at the sight and at all that had gone before. Who could have imagined the staid, pompous vicar paying a fancy woman to spank him? It was really too absurd, Georgiana thought with a bit of hysteria.
Although she tried to restrain herself, when she turned to look at Ashdowne, Georgiana knew it was hopeless, for he too appeared to be barely containing his amusement. And as soon as the door shut behind the vicar, the two of them sagged against each other as they gave in to boisterous laughter.
Once her amusement died away, Georgiana visibly began to droop, like a hothouse flower that had been exposed too long to the vagaries of an English climate. Her shoulders slumped, her smile faded, and, oddly enough, Ashdowne felt as if the sun had
gone down with it. He would have taken her in his arms, convincing her to forget all about Hawkins and the stolen necklace, but even he realized that the pleasure parlor of the mistress of punishment was hardly the place for such distractions.
Of course, a gentleman would never have let her wander into this neighborhood, and especially not an establishment such as this one, but Ashdowne had never accounted himself a gentlemen. He didn’t feel the slightest shame over what they had seen, which had really been little enough. Rather, he thought it had all been highly humorous, as had Georgiana.
She was not the type of woman he had to shield from the world, as was his fragile sister-in-law. Anne would have fainted dead away at the sight of a man’s bare buttocks, let alone the mistress whipping her client. Indeed, most well-bred young ladies, boring creatures all, would have reacted with shock and horror, but Georgiana was nothing if not adventurous. She embraced life in all of its infinite variety, hungry for experience, thirsting for knowledge and lusting for mystery.
Ashdowne shifted slightly as he redirected his thoughts from that last observation. And if, during the course of her exploits, Georgiana caused a few calamities, well then, that was why he was along—to protect her from herself. And this instance, Ashdowne realized, qualified as one of those times. Although she was in no physical danger, Georgiana was spent emotionally. And no matter how hard he might once have laughed at the notion, now he found himself oddly affected by her mood—and determined to elevate it.
So he gathered her close and took her to a coffeehouse, where he plied her with the rich desserts she had forgone the day before. Leaving his own syllabub untouched, Ashdowne tried to bolster her spirits as she fiddled with her silver.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he told her. “Your reasoning was sound.” That was true enough, for the vicar had made his hatred for the upper class quite apparent. If, in Ashdowne’s opinion, he was woefully incapable of managing the stunning theft, then Georgiana could hardly be blamed. Perhaps she didn’t realize the skill, precision and coordination necessary to perform such a feat.
“And how were you to know that he was in the linen closet? Obviously, he was most secretive about it,” Ashdowne murmured.
“Yes,” Georgiana answered glumly as she stuck her spoon into the rich confection. Then she paused to slant him a glance. “Do you think he was lying? Will Mrs. Howard verify his story?”
Although the woman in question might be reluctant to admit to her liaison, Ashdowne thought it highly unlikely that Hawkins was spinning a Banbury tale. “I do not believe that the vicar would have concocted such a story had it not been true,” he hedged, unwilling to disappoint Georgiana further. Clearly discouraged, she sighed, blowing a fat curl from her forehead, and Ashdowne watched the play of her lips with fascination.
Drawing in a deep breath to clear his head, he tried to remember what he was going to say. Ah, yes. “I will speak to Mr. Jeffries about it, but I suspect that Hawkins is simply a bad vicar, not a thief,” he said.
At least, like Whalsey, the man had been guilty of something, Ashdowne mused, but he did not think Georgiana would be heartened to hear it. So he kept silent, watching her as she finally placed the tip of the spoon in her mouth, taking great pleasure in the creamy taste. She took such pleasure in it that Ashdowne hardened at the sight of her fluttering lashes and beatific expression.
He wanted her to look like that for him, not some dessert. Then again, the thick, whipped concoction might very well be used to good advantage, Ashdowne thought wickedly. He would like to spread it over those creamy breasts of hers and…he swallowed, his mind changing track as he watched her lick her silver. On second thought, perhaps the froth could be applied to appropriate portions of his body and Georgiana could do the honors with that lovely little tongue.
She appeared to be awfully good with it.
Ashdowne drew in a harsh breath. He was well aware that his fascination with Miss Bellewether exceeded various and sundry boundaries, including those he had set himself. Never had he intended to do much more than kiss such an innocent, and yet there was the small matter of the little episode in the baths, where he had brought her to release, while spilling himself into his breeches like an untried boy.
Ashdowne’s lips curved at the memory of the incident, which he refused to regret. It had been a most pleasurable, humbling experience and one he longed to repeat, for every time he looked at Georgiana, he desired her. He had but barely glimpsed her breasts, had not seen the rest of her, and so he knew a fierce longing to see all of her, naked. And, as enjoyable as their little encounter had been, it seemed to have just whetted his appetite for more traditional lovemaking.
Watching while she consumed the syllabub with a delight that was palatable, Ashdowne wanted to be the object of that delight. He wanted her hands on him, her mouth on him, her soft curves surrounding him, with an intensity that was remotely alarming. Even ignoring his lingering reservations about the woman herself, this interest of his could bring trouble to them both, if only because of her station in life. And then there was the whole wretched business of the theft.
When Georgiana’s pink tongue snaked out above her lips to catch an errant drop of the dessert, Ashdowne broke out in a sweat. He accounted himself an experienced man, well versed in the intricacies of seduction, but there was something about Georgiana’s innocent sensuality that nearly undid him. His erection was so painful that a small sound escaped him.
“I agree totally. This was simply too much,” Georgiana said, pushing her bowl away. She glanced toward him, her eyes widening. “But you haven’t even touched yours! Here, just have a taste,” she insisted. And to his dismay, she took his spoon, dipped it into the syllabub and held it out to him.
Although he knew it would only test his restraint further, Ashdowne could not resist. His blood pounding out a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like doom, doom, he caught her gaze with his own, letting her see his desire as he sucked on the proffered utensil. Her hand faltered and he captured her wrist, lifting the spoon back to his lips. Then he shamelessly licked away every drop of the dessert, while he watched her blue eyes cloud with a passion that fed his own.
For one long moment, Ashdowne, who prided himself on his ability to remain alert in all situations, felt as if the coffeehouse and its occupants faded away. Only a vague awareness of their surroundings kept him from lifting her to the table and letting his tongue taste a treat sweeter by far than the syllabub—her mouth, followed by every inch of white skin, culminating at the juncture of her thighs. His nostrils flared in a primitive reaction so far removed from his urbane existence that he jerked his hand from hers.
The spoon fell, clattering onto the table and awakening them both to an awareness of their surroundings. Ashdowne could have cursed himself for his slip. What if someone had seen them? What was he thinking to behave in so suggestive a manner when they were in a public place? He was already testing the bounds of propriety by appearing so often as Georgiana’s escort.
Unfortunately, he had no answer to that because he rarely seemed to be thinking at all when Georgiana was around. Something about her made him throw caution to the wind, ignore his instincts, act on impulse and indulge his suddenly overactive appetite for her. It was maddening, yet so strangely exhilarating that he could not help himself.
“I, uh, think that’s enough,” she said, looking away from him in a way that was deuced annoying. Despite what every sensible bone in his body was telling him, he didn’t want her withdrawal. He wanted to take her back to Camden Place, send all the servants away and make love to her on every piece of garish furniture in the house.
“Oh, what are we to do?” Georgiana whispered in a plaintive tone that made Ashdowne draw a deep breath. It was his responsibility to wrest control of this dangerous attraction between them. Determinedly he banished the images invoked by his desires and donned the sober expression of an attentive listener, of a man who could be counted upon to honor her wishes and…
“N
ow Mr. Jeffries will be even more disinclined to put his faith in me,” Georgiana said.
With a jolt, Ashdowne realized that it was not their unsatisfied ardor that upset her, but the bloody case. He had to bite back a shout of laughter as he schooled his expression to polite interest once more.
“Being a man, you can have no notion of the obstacles placed before me,” Georgiana complained. “Your very gender assures you a modicum of respect, no matter how fanciful your notions. Why, even Bertrand, who failed to apply himself to any of his educational opportunities, is taken more seriously than I!”
Although Ashdowne found it difficult to imagine anyone according much respect to her lackadaisical brother, he had to admit that she might well be right on all her other points. It was a sad commentary on the male population, but he rarely held his peers in high regard.
“One look at me, and all but the most discerning see a buffle-headed doll, a witless creature to be admired for her outward appearance, something over which I had no control whatsoever! Indeed, my so-called beauty has been no blessing, but a curse,” Georgiana moaned.
Ashdowne began to feel the weight of his own part in her predicament, a resurgence of guilt that he swiftly tried to dislodge. “You are viewing your appearance in the wrong light, Georgiana,” he said. “You have always worked against it, when, instead, you must learn to use it to your advantage.”
“How?” she asked, her expression a study in bafflement.
Guilt pressed down upon him again, only to be ruthlessly jettisoned. “In the hands of a superior seamstress, you would be incomparable. Dress yourself as befitting your God-given gifts, and present yourself so to the world. When the world comes calling, show it that you have a mind, too. Let your beauty get you in the door, while your wit keeps you there!”
The Gentleman Thief Page 15