by Allison Lane
“With luck, Jasper’s secretary will let us check his papers, though Jasper should have told John if he learned anything. Would John have told you?”
“Probably.” She clamped her lips into a tight line as if battling emotion.
He cursed himself for reminding her of John’s death. He tried laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she slipped away, placing the table between them. She was on guard today, avoiding his touch.
She’ll ignore anything that seems disloyal to John, he reminded himself. This is one woman who won’t succumb to seduction, so strap down your libido and leave her alone. He made his voice matter-of-fact. “We will begin with Peterson. He’ll know all the agents and might know the third collector.”
Peterson was the most honest of London’s many dealers, his clientele including much of society. He was also a purveyor of rumors and other information, but since his knowledge did not extend into the murkier corners of the trade, Alex would have to interview other dealers as well. He knew them all, for royalist émigrés often sold items salvaged from their former lives. Thus when France had sent fake refugees to England to seek the identities of royalists remaining in France, they, too, had sold goods to provide an income. Even spies posed as émigrés. Unmasking them meant Alex had cultivated informants in the antiquities and used-goods shops.
“We will leave for London at first light,” he said, then continued before she could comment. “What is in the third pile?”
“Papers that don’t pertain to Sarsos.” She lifted the top page. “A notice of last week’s assembly. A receipt from the blacksmith, a—”
“I don’t need an inventory. Read them again to make sure nothing pertinent is mixed with them, including notes scribbled in margins, then toss them in your trunk.”
Resuming his seat, he dispatched a message ordering that his town house be readied, then studied Jasper’s reports, determined to figure out why they seemed so familiar.
An hour passed in silence.
Damnation! He barely kept the oath from leaving his lips. His instincts had grown dull. The familiarity had nothing to do with John’s death.
If he stripped the ghoulish exaggeration, Jasper’s descriptions could as easily have applied to Sir Harold’s corpse, which Alex had examined three days after it washed ashore. All three men had drowned. The similarities reflected the effects of immersion on human flesh.
“What is your name?” he demanded, tossing the reports aside.
“What?”
“Your name. If we must work together, I need to know more about you.”
She blushed. “Eden.”
“What about it?”
“That’s my name. Eden Higgins Marlow.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Eden. And you can call me Alex.”
Her blush deepened. “No.”
“But you must. We will be traveling together. If you treat me like a stranger, you will draw notice.” Not that he cared that much, but he would wager she did.
“I— But—” Her face flamed bright enough to light a dungeon. “If I must—”
“You must. Say it, Eden.”
“Alex.”
“Good.” He moved behind her chair, effectively caging her between him and the table. “Describe the road where John was found. The entire scene. Every detail.” When she shuddered, he rested his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging her neck to lessen her tension while assuring himself that this had nothing to do with seduction. It was vital that she relax, for he’d learned that relaxed witnesses recalled details more easily. “I know you told me about it last night, but I need to hear it again.” He widened his massage to include her shoulders.
She repeated the tale, keeping her voice steady.
“Richard cited tracks as proof of an attack. Describe them.” He kept his touch light and his voice mesmerizing. Out to her shoulders, then back up her neck, feathering his fingers along her jaw…
She turned her head to look at him. “Why?”
“Did you see the hoofprints?”
She flinched.
He deepened his touch, pulling her head back against his chest to caress her throat, then moving down her arms. Her pulse jumped. So did his, until his heart pounded in his chest. Touching her ignited the fires of hell in his loins. He was way overdue for release. If only he could tell her how she affected him…
But that was impossible. And this was business, he reminded himself.
“Describe them, Eden,” he murmured into her ear. “If I’m to find the man responsible, I must know everything.” His fingers brushed the outside of her breast. Cursing under his breath, he returned his hands to their task.
“Right.” She drew in a shaky breath as if she was too aroused to think.
“Hoofprints,” he reminded her, reining in his imagination.
“Right.” Her breath shuddered out. “There were many of them. Too many, I thought. Other parts of the road showed few marks. But a herd of horses milling about would have left fewer tracks.” She frowned toward the window as a new storm arrived to rattle the panes.
“Close your eyes and picture the scene.” His hands kept up their seductive stroking, bare skin against bare skin. Warmth against warmth. Arms. Throat. Jaw beneath her ear. She was incredibly soft. Incredibly smooth. Delectably fragrant. A hint of honeysuckle tickled his nose. “Where are the marks?”
“Everywhere.” Her chin stretched up, baring her throat to his touch – like a cat rubbing against a willing hand.
He tightened the curb on his desire.
“The deepest pranced next to John. Five or six steps. But not— They weren’t made by our horse!” Eyes wide with shock, she broke free and lunged for the door, apparently forgetting that Sir Richard was several counties away.
He cut off her escape, bracketing her head with his palms so she had to meet his gaze. “Why?”
“The shoes. The prancing horse was missing a shoe. Right front hoof. Ours wasn’t.”
“Good girl.” He dropped a light kiss on her forehead. “You are the most observant witness I’ve ever interviewed. Is there anything else?”
“N-no.”
“Are you sure? Marks? Clothing? Comments?”
“Co— That’s odd.” Her eyes lost their focus.
“What?” He barely breathed the question.
“Richard. He was staring at John when I arrived. And muttering, I warned him dabbling in evil would lead to a bad end.” Her eyes speared his, suddenly sharp.
“No wonder you suspect him.” His arms tried to slide around her, so he stepped back out of reach.
“There was so much about that day that was suspicious,” she agreed.
“His words don’t prove guilt, Eden. Did you ask John if he’d identified the third collector?”
She moved to the fireplace, putting half the room between them. “We last discussed it the day Jasper delivered the stone. He claimed not, though his voice sounded evasive. I’ve since wondered if he suspected a friend, or someone closer.”
“Are we back to Sir Richard?” He drifted toward her.
“No. If he’d suspected Richard, he would have said so – it would be so contrary to everything we knew. Richard might steal the stone to protect the family, but he would never deliberately seek it out.”
“Then who?”
“Christine’s nephew, Jeremy Highbottom. I mentioned him last night. His mother was a Marlow cousin, by the way, so he’s related twice.”
“I don’t recall him. Was he one of the cousins who argued so fiercely ten years ago?”
“No. He’s barely twenty-three so was still in school when Christine died. He’d been orphaned young and raised by an uncle, but he was close to Christine, so her death was a blow. He refused to believe she’d willingly stolen anything. For a time he studied everything he could find on Sarsos, hoping to prove that she’d been under a spell and had not acted on her own volition.”
“It is dangerous to think that spells can make someone steal.”
“I agre
e, but John liked the notion and helped him investigate it. Perhaps it soothed his pride to think she couldn’t help herself.”
“So you think Jeremy might be the third collector?”
“Perhaps. He visits several times a year to discuss antiquities with John. And he was of age by the time we inquired about collectors. On the other hand, his finances are strained, so I doubt he could afford an agent, let alone relics. That is an excellent motive for theft, though.”
“Do others know of his interest?”
“Richard. He blames John for corrupting Jeremy – he has long accused John of trying to corrupt his sons. The youngest isn’t properly disdainful of antiquities and was once caught in the attic where Richard stores the collection.”
Alex nodded.
“I think Jeremy’s interest started as a link to Christine, but now he knows almost as much about the subject as John does. With John gone, Richard is selling his father’s collection. He hired Jeremy to prepare it for auction.”
Eden’s fears suddenly became clear. Her reasoning hadn’t made sense before. Sir Richard would hardly steal a stone he believed was evil, for that would bring the evil closer to his family. “You think Sir Richard murdered John so he could sell the collection, don’t you?”
She paled, but nodded. “It is his most likely motive. He would be afraid to possess the stone for even a brief time. But he’s desperate for money—” She turned away as her voice broke.
This time he pulled her hard against him, patting her as she cried. It was a wonder she hadn’t collapsed sooner.
Her arms wrapped around his waist. He shifted her away from his erection and kept his touch comforting even as his base nature reveled in the touch. Holding her awakened too many of his senses, though that growing protectiveness helped him keep lust in check.
This new twist made Sir Richard a viable suspect. He’d not believed that so pompous a man would believe the Sarsos myth – or even toy with believing it. But greed…
If Sir Richard was guilty, he was using the stone to deflect attention to a motive that would never apply to him. That seemed a bit complex for the man’s stodgy thinking, but possible.
“Forgive me,” she said at last, drawing back.
“Of course.” He handed her a handkerchief, then turned away while she blew her nose. “Sir Richard is a baronet, so I will need hard evidence before I can accuse him. What can you offer?”
She let out a shaky breath, then clasped her hands and continued. “When Jeremy arrived at Marwood only two days after John’s death, I feared that Richard had staged the theft to cover murder. He must sell the collection, for his pockets are to let. I didn’t realize how serious it was until recently. Last year’s harvest didn’t bring enough to finance his daughter’s come-out. His only remaining asset is the collection, yet he has long refused to sell anything that John might buy.”
“Is that aversion strong enough to condone murder?”
“Perhaps. Their rift began long ago and was well established before Richard began looking askance at his father’s collection. Killing John would explain why he insisted the incident was an accident. And it would explain his lies.”
He paced to the window and back. “Let me get this straight. You think Sir Richard might have killed John so he could sell the collection, covering his tracks with a staged theft. Or Jeremy might have been seduced by the myth, stealing the stone to use it. Or other collectors might want the stone badly enough to steal it.”
“And Jeremy might be one of those collectors. Perhaps his financial woes arose from searching for Sarsos objects. Christine’s family was not impoverished. Jeremy should have come into a decent income two years ago.”
“Do you have evidence to support any of this?”
“Of course not! If I had evidence, I would be talking to a magistrate rather than you.” Eden glared at him, wishing he was the elderly man she’d expected. His touch was dangerously seductive, and tears made her too susceptible to sympathy. “We should leave immediately.” She strode toward the door.
He again cut off her escape. “We will leave in the morning, Eden. It is still raining. Give the weather a chance to clear.”
“Waiting is dangerous. What if the thief tries to use the stone? He could wreak all sort of havoc.”
“How? It is a rock with no more power than a blob of sealing wax or that bottle of brandy on my desk. If the thief meant to use it, he’s had eleven days to discover that it doesn’t work. His immediate concern must be to avoid arrest for murder. That should keep him occupied for now.”
She sighed, barely resisting the temptation to sag against him. “This rain has lasted eleven days and shows no sign of ceasing. Time is truly important.” She was ridiculously worried about Olivia.
“Perhaps, but I have business I must settle before leaving Cliffside. And you need rest. The journey will be difficult enough without exhausting ourselves.”
Put like that, she had no choice. “Very well.”
He dropped another light kiss on her forehead and stepped aside, but remained so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body and flaring in his eyes. She stared, unable to move as every nerve in her body vibrated wildly. What kind of spell had he conjured? She wanted to tear off his clothes and devour him. Now.
Her hand started to rise.
Shaken, she fled the library. If she had any sense, she would remain at Cliffside when he left for town. How was she to work with him when a simple touch could draw more response than John’s most ardent lovemaking? It was immoral – and disloyal. She’d been a widow less than a fortnight.
He’s a rake, she reminded herself. Rakes thrive on seduction. To be this good at it, he must have years of practice. How old was he? Thirty? Thirty-five? In twenty years, he could have conquered hundreds.
Her face burned.
He was the first rake she’d met, so she’d not seriously considered them before. Had not even thought about what they did to become rakes. Now she knew. They weren’t gentlemen, yet they ignored rules in ways that made it difficult to object. She had never realized how a rake’s touch might affect her. A gentle caress. A comforting hug. Even a steady gaze that took in every detail of her appearance, seeing clear to her soul. He was so different from John…
Stop this! she berated herself. Rakes had one goal. Seduction. She couldn’t allow it. Mourning aside, she would be no man’s mistress. Nor would she again don the shackles of a wife. Starvation was preferable to repeating that particular folly.
Not that starvation would be necessary. She was strong. Even if she lost Ridley, she would survive.
But no matter how much she wanted to deny it, her skin still tingled. Warmth pooled in her womb. Her hand trembled as she opened the door to her room.
* * * *
Alex stared at the library door. Why did he keep touching Eden when he’d already decided she was too dangerous to pursue? He could find a dozen willing wenches when he reached town. Willing and highly skilled.
But would they stir your senses?
Shaking his head, he returned to the table and stared at Jasper’s reports. But he saw only mossy green eyes turning gold with temper. She was likely a termagant when roused. Since he’d never liked argumentative women, he found it odd that her spirit attracted him.
Or perhaps not odd. Feistiness would cut up his peace if he had to live with it, but he never lived with his liaisons. Her blazing passion would turn explosive in bed, heightening pleasure for both of them. It was that promise that hardened him whenever he looked at her. Eden would never put on a polished performance that lacked soul. If she came to him, the results would be well worth the wait.
But it had to be her idea. Seducing John’s wife when John was barely cold was not the way to repay his debt. Honor cringed at the very idea.
Adjusting his pantaloons to ease his discomfort, he pulled out Debrett’s Peerage and Debrett’s Baronetage and began tracing the men Jasper had mentioned. Who were they? His grandmother would
have known with hardly a moment’s thought.
Damn but he missed her.
Chapter Five
The gentleman rode away from the village, cursing vehemently enough to startle his horse. Three days he’d spent slogging through mud, risking lung fever or worse. And for what? The bitch had slipped through his fingers. Again. She was long past being a mere annoyance. Yet admitting she’d become an enemy accorded her too much power.
He’d traced her to London, expecting to deal with her there. But she’d left town before he’d caught more than a glimpse of her. He’d followed, of course, but Fate had stepped in as she’d done so often in recent weeks.
“It’s but another test,” he reminded himself, kicking his weary mount to a trot. “Fate demands proof that you are worthy of such power.”
A slow, steady inhalation settled his nerves. Fate would reward him in the end, for he was unquestionably worthy. This latest quest would leave no doubt. He would have caught up with her two days ago if mud and cold hadn’t taken their toll on his horse. Not only had the beast cast a shoe, but the nearest smith had been too busy to attend him until the next morning. So he’d been stranded. He could hardly hire another horse without revealing his identity.
Thus he’d fallen behind, for Mrs. Marlow had changed teams often, pushing her carriage to reckless speeds and refusing to stop even when the roads turned to quagmires.
Did she sense he was following?
He shook his head. Impossible. He’d done nothing to draw notice.
Yet not only hadn’t he caught up, he’d no idea of her final destination and wouldn’t learn it now. The ostler at the last coaching inn had recognized her miniature. She’d passed early that very morning, headed back for London, now accompanied by a second coach and a gentleman on horseback. What the devil was she up to?
“It doesn’t matter,” he reminded himself. They would conclude their business, then she would die. She knew too much about Sarsos. Once she was gone, he could regain the birthright stolen from his grandfather, then address his real task – restoring the throne to its rightful occupant. He was descended father to son in direct line from Edward IV. Scoundrels may have sworn that Edward’s sons were illegitimate, but he knew otherwise. And he knew that the younger of those sons had survived the attack in the Tower, his battered body smuggled out and nursed back to health.