by CJ Archer
"He hasn't been in all week," Northbridge said. Since North knew everyone's comings and goings better than the club's manager, it must be true.
"I said," Alex persisted, emphasizing each word, "I don't need her. Cancel her contract." When Sir Oswyn shook his head, it took all of Alex's self-control not to snatch the cane and break it over the Permanent Under-Secretary's head.
"No," Sir Oswyn said again. "I've already told you I won't. I take it you've discovered that Miss Appleby is not the sort to back down?"
Only because Sir Oswyn was blackmailing her, as he was also doing to Alex. His fingernails bit into his palms and he forced himself to unclench his fists. Whatever secret Sir Oswyn knew about Miss Appleby, it must be good because she'd not given an inch, even when Alex had been unwelcoming to the point of rudeness.
He needed to think bigger.
Northbridge folded up his newspaper once more and stood. "I feel in dire need of a game of billiards. Excuse me, gentlemen." He was already walking away before he'd finished his sentence.
Alex groaned inwardly. With North gone, there was no excuse not to have a direct discussion with Sir Oswyn about his opium smoking.
Sir Oswyn sat heavily in the chair Northbridge had vacated and rested the walking stick against his leg. "Did you offer her money to leave?"
Alex said nothing. It wasn't the sort of question that required an answer.
"Now that you've met her and realize she's not going anywhere, you might as well stop smoking the stuff. The sooner you do, the sooner she'll be gone and your life will return to normal. Lord Castlereagh and I—."
"Castlereagh can go to hell," Alex growled.
"He probably will. But before he does, he'll see you back in your diplomatic role."
"You seem to have forgotten that I've resigned."
Sir Oswyn waved a hand. "I didn't really believe you."
Bloody typical. "Just like you didn't believe me when I told you I killed Cottesloe."
Sir Oswyn's gaze flicked around the room before resettling on Alex. "You're absolutely right. I don't believe you."
Alex shook his head. "You're a fool."
"No. I know you, Redcliff. You don't kill friends. If you did you'd have offed that idiot Northbridge well before now. What I do know is that you believe you killed him." He paused, perhaps waiting for Alex to respond, then when he didn't Sir Oswyn continued. "If you'd just bloody well stay off the opium long enough to dream about that night, you might remember exactly what happened. Afterwards you can smoke it until you turn into a chimney, I don't care. Just give me a few days without it." His face was turning a vivid shade of puce. Capped by the two bushy white eyebrows and white hair, he looked almost comical.
But there was nothing funny about the situation. Alex felt his frustration simmering beneath the surface of his skin, safely contained for the moment. "If you don't believe me then you're the one with the problem. I've given you enough information so you can follow it up with the Swiss authorities and I'll not tell you any more. I gave you everything when I worked for you, Crisp. Everything. I won't give you more now that I've resigned." The hammer in his head slammed against his skull with every word but it was worth it if he got his point across. "Understand?"
Sir Oswyn rubbed his thigh and his face slowly returned to a less dangerous pink. Alex's headache pounded out a warning against his temples. Sir Oswyn was going to pull out the only weapon he possessed—blackmail. He'd already used it to ensure Alex couldn't throw out Miss Appleby so it made sense to use it in the ultimate goal—to get Alex to stop his opium smoking.
But he didn't. Sir Oswyn simply switched from rubbing his thigh to rolling his palm over the silver serpent's head knob of his cane. Alex let out a breath. His bloody brother still had a lot to answer for however.
The previous year Staunton had been caught conducting a financial transaction with an underground French organization. On the surface it was innocent enough. He sold wool from his lands to Frenchmen and they smuggled it back into their country. On it's own that wasn't the problem. Hundreds of people on both sides of the Channel smuggled goods between the countries. Nor had it surprised Alex when Sir Oswyn informed him. It sounded like something Staunton would do. He was always looking for ways to make extra money and wouldn't care if he'd made a deal with the man in the moon. Money was money.
But there'd been more. The traders had been traced directly to the French army. His brother's wool was used to make uniforms for the soldiers killing Englishmen. That was treason.
Stupid, greedy Staunton. Fortunately Lord Castlereagh only gave his fellow peer a warning but Sir Oswyn reminded Alex in no uncertain terms that he still possessed the evidence and could call upon witnesses if the need ever arose. He assured Alex the need would arise if he threw Miss Appleby out of his house.
Alex may not particularly like his brother but Staunton was the head of the family, the one with the title. He also had a wife and three children who needed him. Alex wouldn't let the blade of treason hang over all their heads. He did, however, blast Staunton to hell when he saw him.
Sir Oswyn didn't say anything but hauled himself to his feet by using his cane to push himself up. Without a word of goodbye, he left Alex to join another acquaintance he'd spotted.
Alex watched him go, his head aching, his blood pumping furiously. It seemed he was stuck with Miss Appleby for now.
But how long could they go on living under the same roof, playing tug-of-war with his opium? He couldn't elude her forever. Sooner or later she'd find a way to cut off his supply. Something about her made him suspect she was clever enough, and bold enough, to do it.
So it would appear his only recourse was to remove Miss Appleby before she removed all his powder. The question was, how? He'd tried bribery, he'd tried being ungentlemanly, neither of which had made her flutter an eyelash in shock let alone defeat. Such a formidable opponent necessitated he do something bad. Absolutely wicked in fact.
He would have to seduce her.
"What the devil are you smiling at?" Northbridge said, newspaper tucked under his arm.
Alex had been smiling? It must be the prospect of curling those virginal little toes into submission. At least it wouldn't be an entirely terrible undertaking. She was pretty enough with dark brown eyes and a full mouth, but a little plain beyond those features.
"I'm smiling because I've just thought of a way to outwit Miss Appleby."
"Ah," said Northbridge, sitting. He signaled a passing footman to refill his empty glass. "You're going to attempt to free yourself of the harridan."
Alex put his hand up to halt the footman, downed the remainder of his brandy then gave the glass to the servant and ordered another. "How did you deduce that?"
"It's what we always did with Aunt Harry. I recall scampering whenever we saw her coming."
"Only this time I don't plan on doing the scampering myself."
"Your life always proves entertaining, Redcliff. Care to place a wager? Ten says she's still with you at the end of a week."
"You haven't even asked how I'm going to go about it."
Northbridge's eyes danced from either drink or merriment or a lot of both. "I think I can guess. And that, my friend, will be the entertaining part." He stretched out his hand. "Do we have a wager?"
Alex shook it. "A week. Easy."
"What about Sir Oswyn? Won't he simply employ another nurse?" He pulled a face. "She might be worse than this Applecake."
"I'll worry about Sir Oswyn when the time comes."
The footman returned with another two glasses of brandy. Alex drained the contents of his and placed the empty glass on the waiting servant's tray.
"I must be off," he said, rising.
"Already?" Northbridge lazily unfolded his newspaper. "I suppose you want to get an early start on the wager."
"Don't expect to see me here much in the coming days, North. Not only do I have a wager to win but my sister and aunt are coming to stay for the Season. They arrive tomorrow."<
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Northbridge pulled a face. "I'd have thought that unlucky event would see you at the club more not less. You are becoming positively domestic, Redcliff."
Alex took his leave of Northbridge who appeared entirely engrossed in The Times once more but was more likely to be watching the room's occupants out of the corner of his eye. He accepted his hat from the porter and blinked into the afternoon sunshine. It stung his dry eyes and seemed to pierce through his skull to his brain. Behind him the tap tap of a walking cane drew closer. He clenched his jaw. He'd had enough of Sir Oswyn but politeness dictated he at least acknowledge him.
"You came here specifically to see me, didn't you?" Alex said, descending the steps to the street slowly in deference to the awkward gait of his companion.
"I thought you would try to wriggle out of our agreement regarding Miss Appleby."
"It was hardly an agreement. You informed me she was coming, I informed you I didn't need her, you told me I had no choice."
"So pleased we are in accord, Redcliff."
There were too many witnesses around for Alex to do anything more than sneer.
A black town coach with Sir Oswyn's family crest of two green serpents twisted together to form a column pulled up alongside them. A groom jumped down, unfolded the steps and opened the door. Alex held out his hand to help the Permanent Under-Secretary in. Sir Oswyn accepted Alex's assistance but still struggled to climb into the coach with his mangled legs. Once he had both feet firmly on the step, he threw his cane on the floor and eased himself onto a seat. "Miss Appleby is simply doing her job, Redcliff. She's trying to help you. As am I."
Alex sighed and lowered his head. "I don't need your help, I've resigned." His response was always the same although he heard the irritable edge to it this time.
Sir Oswyn shifted in his seat and stretched his left leg out. He massaged the thigh and knee. "A great deal rides on your memory returning, Redcliff." He spoke with the quiet, calm dread that Alex was all too familiar with.
"You've got it all wrong."
There was nothing more about that night that Sir Oswyn needed to know—Alex killed Cottesloe. Over a woman. He'd told Sir Oswyn that and the old devil hadn't believed him. He'd claimed there was something else locked in Alex's nightmares. But there was no mystery. Alex was a murderer. Sir Oswyn just couldn't accept it.
Sir Oswyn shook his head and signaled for his hovering groom to close the coach door then ordered the driver to move off. "Be nice to Miss Appleby," he said as the coach jerked forward.
Alex stepped out of the way of the wheels. "Oh, I intend to be," he muttered to the retreating coach. "So nice she won't be able to resist me." And when he had her in the palm of his hand, he'd return to his roguish ways. She'd be so heartbroken, she wouldn't be able to get out of his house fast enough.
He watched the coach turn into Pall Mall then headed in the opposite direction towards Piccadilly. He'd only walked a few blocks when he realized he was being followed. It was more a feeling than firm knowledge but his instincts rarely betrayed him. He stopped to look in the window of a tobacconist and in the reflection caught a glimpse of a brown coat as someone ducked into the recessed doorway of a bookshop across the road.
Alex continued on, resisting the urge to glance around. He was quite certain his pursuer still followed. He turned left, as if he was going to skirt around Leicester Square, then ducked into an alley. He pressed himself against the brick wall of the draper's shop on the corner and waited.
But the brown-coated pursuer didn't pass. Whoever was following him had enough wits not to fall into the simple trap. That alone told him the man was no amateur.
Alex jumped into a waiting hack and ordered the driver to move on. He didn't give him the address of his opium supplier until he was quite sure no one was following him.
CHAPTER 3
Georgiana knew as soon as she saw Mr. Redcliff standing at the sideboard at breakfast that he'd slept peacefully. A peaceful sleep meant he'd taken opium. It was a disappointment but then she'd not expected a miracle. There were no pigs flying outside the window.
"You're still here," he said. Although his words were cutting, his manner was entirely the opposite. He seemed almost cheerful. Not that he smiled. It was more of a lightness in his bearing and a sparkle in his eyes. In fact, they were almost warm as he regarded her. "I hope the bed was to your satisfaction?"
Bed? Good lord, what an odd question. "Yes, thank you." She loaded her plate with buttered toast from the sideboard and poured some tea into a gold-rimmed cup.
"And dinner? Did Mrs. Cook set your tongue tingling?" He stood so close to her she could feel the warmth of him through her dress, chemise and corset all the way to her skin.
She took a step back. "Yes, thank you." She quickly moved away and sat down at the dining table, her back to him as he served himself breakfast.
She was still contemplating his odd question when a lump of toast caught in her throat. She began to choke.
"Are you all right, Miss Appleby?" Mr. Redcliff said, already at her side. He rubbed her back with gentle, circular strokes. His free hand passed her the cup of tea.
She accepted it gratefully and dislodged the offending morsel with a gulp. Mr. Redcliff continued rubbing her back, the strokes inching higher and higher until his fingers touched the bare skin of her neck. Tingling tendrils spread down her spine, across her shoulders, draping her in warmth.
A small sigh escaped her lips and it was this sound filling the silence that brought awareness back with a jolt.
What was he doing?
More to the point, why was she letting him?
"Thank you, Mr. Redcliff, I assure you I am quite recovered."
He stopped rubbing and picked up his plate again. He moved around to the other side of the table and sat. She didn't dare lift her gaze any higher than his chest although she was certain he was watching her intently. She could feel those eyes on her all the way through to her flesh.
She finished her toast quickly and drank her tea while it was still warm.
"There's more," he said. Finally she looked up at him. He was pointing to the sideboard with his knife, his fork poised with a slice of beef near his mouth. "I wasn't sure what you liked so I asked Mrs. Cook to prepare a little of everything."
"I did wonder why there was so much. Thank you, that was most thoughtful."
He smiled at her then popped the beef in his mouth.
"But quite unnecessary and I'm not sure Mrs. Cook would thank you," she went on. "I assume you gave her instructions after your return late last night? I retired from the library around midnight and you had not yet come home."
"Spying on me, were you?"
"Yes."
He raised one eyebrow then stabbed another piece of beef with his fork.
"Don't you want to know why?" she asked, hoping the servants didn't come to clear away the dishes soon. This conversation required the utmost discretion.
He swallowed. "Not really but I suspect you're going to tell me anyway." He watched her through half-closed eyes and she was reminded of a painting she'd once seen hanging in the bedchamber belonging to one of her father's more eccentric patients. In it, a half-human creature with horns and a tail had exactly the same expression as it knelt above the semi-naked girl reclining on a bed of leaves. The painting had made Georgiana shudder but once she overlooked its gruesome flavor, she'd found it intriguing. That's how it was with Redcliff. He was intriguing despite his devilishness.
"I wanted to speak to you again," she said, matching his cold regard with what she hoped was a defiant glare of her own. She would not allow him to frighten her away. "I also wanted to find out if you'd purchased more opium."
"Ah," he said. "And what would you have done if I had returned home while you were waiting for me in my library? Searched me?" He stood and held his arms out wide. "Why not do it now?" He leaned forward over the table and murmured, "I know you want to."
"The only thing I want to do, Mr. Redcliff,
is have a sensible conversation with a sensible gentleman. It seems I have failed on both counts." She stood and returned her dishes to the sideboard.
"Oh no you don't." He suddenly appeared beside her and caught her arm. "You're not leaving yet."
She tried to shake him off but his fingers only curled tighter, biting into her skin through her sleeve.
But then his grip relaxed and his fingers began to caress her instead. His eyes went from cold to sizzling in a heartbeat. The man either had no control over his seesawing emotions or he had complete control and this change was simply all an act. If so, he was a better actor than those on the stage at Covent Garden. Considering his occupation and reputation, it was no great surprise.
"My apologies," he said, letting go. "But I don't want our conversation to end so soon. I was rather enjoying your company."
Now that must be a lie. She' d not said a single word that placed her in the category of Good Company. So what the devil was he up to? "You are in remarkably good spirits this morning," she said. "Compared to yesterday." She forked her eyebrow at him, an immature gesture but so be it.
He took a step back from her as if she'd shoved him. "I apologize for my behavior. It was unforgivable. I'd like to prove to you that I'm not always so ungentlemanly."
"So we don't need to avoid each other?"
He winced. "Did I really say that? I'm sorry. Of course we don't need to avoid each other."
Definitely lying. The change from yesterday was too remarkable to be real. But it did provide her with unexpected access to her patient. She might as well use it for her own benefit. "Does this mean you've come to accept my presence here? If so, I will be confiscating all of the opium you procured yesterday. And then I want an assurance from you that you will not attempt to buy more." It was necessary to at least try and establish the boundaries, even though she expected complete failure at this point.