Thomas rounded the corner to his left when he entered, continued down a short hallway, and disappeared into a room she assumed would be hers. She noticed a narrow staircase leading to the second floor on her immediate left, and underneath it, at the edge of the hall, a doorway opening to the kitchen. She stood silently where she was, waiting for an invitation to sit, although she knew this was now essentially her place of residence, too.
It was much smaller than her home in Marseille where she lived alone, and she saw no servants here, another essential to which she was probably far too accustomed. In Marseille she had only one personal maid, the very efficient Marie-Camille, who took care of meals, the house, and even her wardrobe. Normally Marie-Camille traveled with her, but the instructions from Sir Riley had forbidden that. She would have to make do on her own in Winter Garden.
Thomas returned after only moments, his head almost touching the ceiling as he ducked to keep from hitting a beam with his forehead. This appeared to be out of habit, though, since his eyes were once again focused solely on her.
“The room on the right is yours,” he informed her quietly. “Beth Barkley, the vicar’s daughter, comes in every other day to cook meals, clean, and collect the laundry. I had her put clean sheets on your bed this morning.”
“I see.” She pulled her blue leather gloves from her fingers, still feeling mildly uncomfortable for reasons unknown to her. At least he didn’t appear to witness her discomfiture. “And where do you sleep, Thomas?”
He stopped about three feet from her, hands on hips, apparently finding no underlying significance to her question. “I’ve taken the room upstairs. You’ll have plenty of privacy. The water closet is next to your room, at the end of the hall. We have no tub for bathing, but the local inn charges a minimal fee for the use of theirs, and it’s clean.”
She attempted a smile and began to unbutton her cloak. “Thank you.” She really wished he would stop looking at her with such hard, assessing eyes, as if he didn’t recognize at all how feminine she was but instead found her…something of a contradiction, maybe? Certainly Sir Riley had told him what to expect of her. Yet he appeared to be studying her closely rather than admiring any part of her.
“Would you like tea?” he asked politely, cutting into her thoughts.
“Yes, please,” was her quick response as she lifted her cloak from her shoulders.
He reached out and took it and her gloves without comment, only briefly scanning her figure clothed in an ordinary traveling gown of sky-blue muslin. Then he turned and disappeared into the hallway once more.
Madeleine shook herself and breathed in fully, trying to relax, fighting a tired, aching head and binding stays that had been wrapped around her middle for nearly ten hours. She needed to keep her mind clear and remember her purpose. She was here on government business, and so was he. His thoughts of her, his impression of her person, were irrelevant. Where he was concerned she couldn’t understand herself either, or her reactions to him upon first meeting. Usually, when choosing male companionship, she preferred dashing, sophisticated men of gentle breeding. Thomas Blackwood was unlike any she’d ever been attracted to before, yet that in itself intrigued her.
She heard him rattling dishes in the kitchen but didn’t feel like walking in there herself. What would she say to him? Of course, they had plenty to discuss, but she felt more comfortable letting him lead the conversation, which he would undoubtedly do over tea. And she was far too restless to simply retire to her own room so early in the day.
Instead, Madeleine entered the parlor proper. She liked the spacious feel of it, surprisingly light and airy considering the dark furniture, and windows that only faced north and west. The embers in the fireplace were low but would soon be stirred, coal added, to warm the house for the coming evening. Above the grate, on the mantel, she noticed a gold-faced clock indicating the time was nearly four, and next to it what appeared to be a wooden music box. She wondered if these were his things, if anything in the room was his. Certainly the chess set was. She didn’t know this for a fact, but the hardness of it, the solitude it implied, seemed to suit what little she knew of him.
She stopped in front of the set and picked up a brown marble knight, rolling it between her thumb and fingers. It felt heavy, cold, sturdily sculpted. Yes, this was his.
At the sound of his booted feet on the hard wooden floor she looked up. He walked into the room carrying a silver tray complete with china teapot and matching cups on saucers, a sugar bowl and pitcher of cream. He looked straight at her, into her eyes again, his expression flat and unreadable.
She sank slowly onto the sofa, holding his gaze and trying not to smile at the picture he presented—the enormous, warrior god-man, dark and sensually arousing, carrying a tray to serve tea to her personally. Instead, she maintained a neutral expression and managed a general question. “Who owns this cottage, Thomas?”
His brows rose fractionally. “I’m not certain.” He set the tray in the center of the tea table, reached for the pot, and poured two cups, placing one in front of her. “Sir Riley offered me only the key and directions. The few things in this room are mine that I brought with me from home. The bedroom furnishings and kitchen items were here when I arrived.”
Madeleine adjusted the hem of her skirt, pulling it in so he could take a seat in the chair next to her without stepping on it. He lowered himself stiffly, cup and saucer in hand, regarding her.
“Then you’re not from here,” she commented rather than asked, keeping her eyes fixed on his face.
“I’m from Eastleigh, several hours to the north of here,” he returned without pause or pretense. “I’ve been to Winter Garden twice on holiday, although it’s been six or seven years since my last visit. I knew nobody when I arrived this time, but I’ve managed to meet several people and make some acquaintances during the last few weeks.”
“I suppose that will be helpful to our cause,” she responded thoughtfully.
“Mmm.”
An awkward moment passed silently. She glanced back to the marble piece she still held in her palm. “You’re a chess player, Thomas?”
He raised his cup to his lips, taking a small sip of his steaming tea. “I play frequently. It helps me think, sometimes to relax.”
His tone had dropped as her questioning grew personal, but she ignored the significance. “I imagine you play with someone from the village, then?”
He was quiet for so long she felt compelled to raise her gaze back to his. Almost at once his expression had become clouded, intense.
“Only with myself, Madeleine,” he answered through a low, thick breath. “I’ve had no one to play with for quite some time.”
She had absolutely no idea how to take that, feeling warm suddenly from the closeness of his body and the heat of his eyes. Did he have any idea how suggestive that sounded to her? Like a secret, sensual remark between lovers. Without question, she knew that if they were in a room with ten people she would be the only one to find that statement erotic. Was he thinking the same?
He watched her, his sculpted lips pulled back vaguely in challenge, his eyelids lowered just faintly. The muscles in her belly tightened, but she couldn’t turn away. Oh, yes. He knew. He knew exactly what he’d said, and he knew exactly how she’d interpret it.
“Do you play?” he questioned, his voice dark, quiet.
Madeleine blinked quickly and straightened, turning her attention to the chessboard beside her, very gently replacing the marble knight. “I can, although it’s been a while since I have,” she admitted with a diffidence that surprised her. “I assume you’re good, Thomas?”
“I’m very good.”
She hesitated. “Do you…usually win?”
“My skills haven’t failed me yet.”
He hadn’t touched her at all, and yet she felt him, felt his puncturing stare—blatant, probing, daring.
“I think I might enjoy the challenge,” she conceded quietly, looking back at his face with forced
candor. “But perhaps you should know I also play to win.”
He lengthened his body in his chair, stretching one booted leg out to rest on the footstool. “And do you?”
“Win?”
He nodded negligibly.
She fidgeted on the sofa cushion, running a moist palm slowly along her thigh over her gown. “Usually,” she confided, her throat dry, tight.
For a fleeting moment she was certain he almost smiled, something she had yet to see him do. Then he brought his cup to his lips again with slow, calculated precision, taking a long sip, never averting his eyes from hers.
“I’m sure you’d agree,” he said seconds later, “that it’s always better when both players have the opportunity to win, to keep the game…mutually enjoyable.” He paused, then added in a soothing whisper, “I think it would be fascinating to watch the jubilation on your face when you do, Madeleine.”
She couldn’t believe he had said that and she couldn’t take any more. The room felt stuffy to her suddenly, thick with a tension she couldn’t describe. She wished she had a fan. But it was nearly winter. The heat she felt was entirely from within, brought out by a man she hardly knew as he caressed her with innocent words having vivid, sexual meaning they both clearly understood. All in the guise of playing chess.
The clock on the mantel chimed four, startling her. Madeleine was the first to look away, quickly reaching for her tea, stirring in a trace amount of sugar and cream with uncommonly graceless fingers, taking special note of the intricate detail in tiny purple tulips etched into the dainty china cups.
“Would you like to hear about our assignment?”
She felt jittery in her skin, but he’d become indifferent again, almost formal. He was good at this, she considered, and obviously quite the expert in masking his thoughts, feelings, and probably his emotions. She read that in him immediately. She was good at it, too, but he did seem to have the advantage when it came to the time it took to compose himself. Certainly he wasn’t flushing as she was right now, something he no doubt witnessed. For a second or two she wondered if he’d been as stimulated by the exchange as she had, but it was difficult to tell and she tried not to think about it.
“Please,” she replied, laying her spoon on the saucer.
He placed his cup and saucer on the table and sat back, leaning his elbow on the chair’s padded armrest. “How much do you know already?”
She shrugged, taking a sudden great interest in her steaming tea as she lifted her cup and lightly sipped. “Only that there is a rumor of smuggling activity operating from or through Winter Garden. Beyond that, I know nothing.”
Cautiously he asked, “What did Riley Liddle tell you about me?”
She glanced at him sideways through her lashes as she took another swallow. What remained of the setting sun shone through the west window, casting a stream of light across his face and body, the scar at his mouth. A thick, dark curl hung low over his forehead, but he didn’t appear to notice these things, remaining curiously focused on her.
Madeleine placed her cup and saucer next to his on the table, then angled her body so that she faced him directly, folding her hands properly in her lap, trying her best to push from her mind the sexual thoughts brought out only moments ago. As he apparently had.
“He said only that you were a large man, thirty-nine years old. That you have been living here at the cottage for several weeks without learning anything. That you requested help and would be the one to give me details. That’s all really. I only saw him for a few minutes yesterday.”
“I see.” He rubbed the backs of his fingers along his chin, scratching the skin with his day’s growth of beard. “Do you know what’s being smuggled?”
Her brows rose. “No, although I assume it to be something important or valuable. I’d never be requested to come here from the south of France to investigate a trivial matter.”
“Opium,” he revealed quietly.
Madeleine stilled as a cold darkness swept through her. Of all the memories of her childhood to leave a lasting black impression, her experiences with the effects of opium abuse caused the greatest pain. But he didn’t need to know that.
“Opium,” she repeated softly. “How does one smuggle something legal to own and conveniently purchased?”
“By stealing it randomly, before it’s properly taxed and distributed.” He grew focused as he collected his thoughts to carry on. “Our suspicions first surfaced about eighteen months ago when it came to our attention that very small supplies were disappearing soon after arrival in Portsmouth. Intelligence was slow to start an investigation because the amount taken was not, in the beginning, worth the effort. During the last four or five months, however, this amount has steadily increased to a point that it can no longer be ignored. The loss is becoming valuable. So, an official inquiry began, but after a few weeks of learning nothing, the decision was made to send me here to integrate myself into the town and work covertly.”
Intrigued, Madeleine sat forward, forearms laying flat along her thighs, hands folded together. “They think the opium is being smuggled through Winter Garden?”
He leaned toward her over the armrest, eyes bright, face taut. “The trail leads to the vicinity of Winter Garden, where it subsequently vanishes. Normally we should be able to see activity, or hear something useful through infiltration and boastful gossip, but so far nothing.” His lids narrowed shrewdly. “I think the opium is being brought here because the village is unsuspecting, and once here it’s divided and transported north into England proper for sale and distribution. The reasons are unclear, and we’re completely ignorant of the means, but we believe whoever is taking the risk is selling it to be smoked, not drunk, and that he—or perhaps even she—is making a profit by selling to a select clientele. I also believe that the operation is maintained, or at the very least organized, by someone who lives here permanently, since shipments have been taken during summer months. But the two questions yet to be answered are who, and how this person is able to carry out the dispersion in absolute secrecy.”
Madeleine reached again for her tea, starting to feel the slow burn of anticipation envelop her as it did so often at the beginning of a new assignment. “Since the opium is stolen, it’s undoubtedly a lucrative operation for the supplier,” she speculated aloud, staring at the table in front of her. “He wouldn’t take such a great risk otherwise, and because there is no initial expenditure, the income from the sale would be entirely his. But he is not working alone. The process is too complicated.” She took a long sip from her cup. “He is aware of shipments coming into port, organizes the theft, somehow arranges for it to be brought here, then ships it out again to sell to those in need, for either a low cost or the price of discretion. Maybe both. And if his clients are addicted, and wealthy, the income could be substantial.” She looked back at him, eyes sparkling. “Remarkable operation. And smart.”
“It’s also very dangerous.”
She agreed with a nod. “So he must be quite arrogant or desperate. Any suspects?”
Thomas sat back once more, relaxing as he studied her. “I’ve got two of them, but no proof, and I’m not sure how to go about getting it. That’s why I requested assistance.”
“I see.” She leaned her shoulder on the soft sofa cushion and swallowed the rapidly cooling contents of her cup. “And they are?”
“Lady Claire Childress, a widow whose husband died of mysterious causes two years ago. And Richard Sharon, Baron Rothebury.”
Her lips turned up in droll amusement. “A lady and a baron—both members of the gentry.”
He tilted his head, his thick brows lifting in question. “You don’t think the aristocracy can be as deceptive and greedy as the middle and lower classes, Madeleine?”
She smiled fully at that, beginning, for the first time since they’d met, to feel comfortable in his presence. “I know from experience that they can, Thomas. In fact, they usually have more opportunity and desire for riches since they are clos
er at grasping those things, especially if they have come from wealth and have somehow lost it. It’s also true that anyone can cheaply buy laudanum, but not everyone of good birth wants an addiction to be known. It’s likely that the smuggler is selling to his, or her, social class.”
He dropped his chin in acknowledgment of her reasonable deductions. “My thoughts exactly.”
A warmth of communication passed between them. “Why these two?”
He paused to consider that. “Lady Claire is…harsh. You’ll understand when you meet her. It wouldn’t be above her to lead a group of smugglers, but that’s just my opinion. She recently began refurbishing her estate, although she’s had only a small income provided her by her late husband. I don’t know where she’s getting the money to do so.” He pursed his lips, thinking, then said softly, “I also think she’s an addict.”
The partial smile died on her mouth. Madeleine turned to face the tea table, gently placing her empty cup and saucer on top of it as thoughts and memories she’d so long kept hidden deep within came gushing to the surface, surprising her with an intensity she thought had cooled. “And the baron?” she carried on, voice steady, giving nothing away.
He pulled his leg up from the footstool and planted both feet on the floor to sit forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping together in front of him. “The baron is a more likely suspect,” he disclosed, finally moving his gaze from her and resting it on the fireplace. “Partly because he’s a mystery and smooth as oil. I met him only once. He didn’t like me, although I’m not sure why.”
Winter Garden Page 2