Meet Me at Midnight

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I detect a small bit of sarcasm,” Crispin said dryly. Surprisingly, he looked more intrigued than annoyed. “Sin doesn’t agree with you.”

  “No, he doesn’t. And I don’t want to see him hurt because he refuses to listen to me.” Her voice broke, and she tried to cover it by clearing her throat. “He won’t even look in that direction.”

  “Sin’s not usually wrong. If he was, we would all have been dead a long time ago.”

  “I know that. But how can he be so stub—”

  “The pleasant thing about having partners,” the Scot interrupted, “is that even when you’re lookin’ in one direction, somebody else is watching your back.”

  She had to take that to mean he would look into Kingsfeld himself. A relieved tear ran down her cheek. She was becoming such a watering pot these days. “Thank you, Mr. Harding.”

  “Aye. Now you’d best go home. I don’t relish the thought o’ having to explain to Sin what you’re doing here.”

  “Neither do I.” Even so, she hesitated. “Mr. Harding?”

  “Aye?”

  She strode forward and stuck out her hand. “I do think we want the same thing.”

  Slowly he reached out and gripped her fingers. “I hope so. For all our sakes.”

  By the end of the afternoon, Sin was three-quarters of the way toward wishing he’d knocked Geoffreys over the head and gone in to search Kingsfeld’s home, after all. The earl hadn’t been at the horse auctions, nor at any of his clubs, nor indulging in an afternoon ride in Hyde Park.

  As Sin trudged wearily into the house, Milo greeted him with his usual polite nod and silence. Sin wasn’t in much of a mood to talk, so for once he didn’t mind the stodgy fellow’s manner. Upstairs the conservatory door was closed, and after a moment’s hesitation he continued on to his own rooms.

  “Roman,” he said, pulling off his coat as he entered the bedchamber, “a glass of port, if you please.”

  The valet emerged from the dressing room. “I think you’ll want something stronger than that, Sin.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Growling something under his breath, Roman went to the liquor stand and poured him a glass of whiskey. He continued his unintelligible litany as he crossed the room to hand the glass to Sin.

  “Speak up,” Sinclair demanded.

  “I lost track of your wife,” the valet grumbled, backing away.

  “You what?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. How was I to know she’d climb into a carriage and—”

  Sin set the whiskey down hard enough that half of it spilled onto his dressing table. “I don’t want to hear any damned excuses, Roman. Where is she?” Fear stabbed through him. They were getting closer to finding the killer. If the killer knew that…“Talk to me. Now.”

  “All right, all right. She went walking toward Miss Lucy’s house, but then she changed direction toward Bond Street. Ten minutes later Marley stops next to her and climbs out of his phaeton, and a minute after that, she climbs back in with him. By the time I got a hack to stop for me, they were out of sight. I looked—”

  “Shut up,” Sin growled. “Just shut up. I need to think.” He stroke to the window and back again, while Roman wisely stayed out of his way. “You’re certain it was Marley.”

  “Of course I’m certain. What kind of spy—”

  “I think you’re the kind of spy who lost track of my wife!” Sinclair bellowed.

  “Sin—”

  He whirled back on the diminutive valet. “You’re certain she didn’t return here while you were bumbling about?”

  “I asked Milo, but he just glared at me, like he always does.”

  “Milo!” Sinclair stomped back to the door and flung it open. Good God, she had to be all right. He’d warned her about Marley. Why, in Lucifer’s name, had she climbed into a damned carriage with him? Why would she do that?

  “Yes, my lord?” The butler emerged at the top of the staircase.

  “Have you seen my wife this afternoon?” Sin asked, his jaw clenched.

  Milo looked beyond him at Roman, standing with a condemned man’s stare in the depths of the bedchamber. “Yes, my lord,” he answered slowly.

  “When and where?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me, you bloody Mr. Highboo—”

  “Roman, enough! Milo, talk.”

  “She and ah, Hilson, went to see…Lady Stanton, my lord. She said she would return soon.”

  Sin closed his eyes, sudden relief making him almost dizzy. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

  “Is something amiss, my—”

  Grabbing the butler by the lapels, Sinclair jerked him into the bedchamber. “Enough is enough,” he growled. “This little game of yours ends right now. Not liking one another is one thing, but you may not compromise the safety of my wife. You two stay in here until you either make amends or one of you is dead. I don’t care which.” He stalked into the hallway and slammed the door shut.

  Damn! Victoria Fontaine-Grafton was out of control. Her spying adventures had just come to an abrupt, inglorious end. He started for the stairs.

  Vixen was climbing the last step as he reached them. “Did I hear you bellowing at someone?”

  He wanted to grab hold of her and shake her. With his entire strength of will, he kept his hands at his sides and watched her approach. His jaw was clenched so tightly that he couldn’t have uttered a word if he’d known what to say to her. This deep, frightened anger was new to him—and damned hard to control.

  Victoria reached up to cup his cheek. “I was worried about you,” she said softly, searching his face with her violet gaze.

  “You…were…worried…about me?” he repeated in a growl.

  Her hand dropped. “Yes.”

  “And just where did you go today?”

  For another moment she held his gaze, and then she blinked and looked toward the open library door. “I think we need to talk. In private.”

  He nodded with effort. Angry as he was, bellowing at her in front of the servants would reveal too many things he wanted to keep hidden. “After you.”

  He followed her into the library and slammed the door. Victoria jumped at the sound, and he ruthlessly stifled the thought that he was going to bully her into behaving, just because he could. It was for her own good. She had to be safe.

  “Tell me about your luncheon with Lucy and Marguerite.”

  Victoria stopped beneath the window. “I’ll be happy to,” she said, folding her arms across her bosom, “if you’ll tell me whether your friends will be attending our dinner party or not.”

  “So that’s how you want it to be?” he asked tightly. “I’m delayed from doing something, and you use that to justify riding off with Marley all afternoon?”

  Her face paled. “How did you know I went anywhere with Marley?”

  “Roman saw you. And don’t try to pretend it wasn’t you.”

  “I’m not pretending anything. You have Roman spying on me, don’t you? Do you really trust me that little, Sinclair?”

  “Don’t try to put me on the defensive. You’re the one who went off with him—after you told me you were going to luncheon with your friends.”

  “And you weren’t where you were supposed to be either!” she shot back. “I went to find you, and you weren’t there!”

  Something besides anger began to sift into Sin’s brain. Victoria might be reckless, but she wasn’t stupid. “Why did you go to find me?”

  “Ha! I don’t even want to tell you now, you big ape.” She glared at him for another moment, then turned her back. “You won’t believe me, anyway. You never do.”

  Sin realized he’d lost the argument the moment he’d let her open her mouth. With a deep breath, he relaxed his tense combat stance and dropped onto the couch. “Try me.”

  Her long fingers whitened, her fists were clenched so tightly. “Marley approached Lucy the other day to have her warn me about you, and to tell her how worried he was about me. I k
new you would never approve, but I made arrangements to encounter him today, to find out what he really wanted.”

  “You’re right,” he said grimly. “I would never have approved. Good God, Victoria. You might have been…” It took him two tries to even get the rest of the sentence out. “You might have been hurt.”

  “I made certain we stayed in public. Anyway, he tried to convince me that you were having an affair with Sophie L’Anjou, and that I should therefore have an affair with him.”

  Without realizing how he got there, Sinclair was on his feet again, halfway to the window. “And your answer was what?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “I asked him why I should avoid you. He said he was almost certain you’d killed your brother, and that was a damned shame, because Thomas always kept a good supply of brandy. In fact, we could blackmail you with the murder insinuation to get you to fund our affair.” Slowly she faced him again, her hands clasped in front of her. “I don’t know how I can convince you, Sinclair, but Marley did not kill your brother. He…he doesn’t feel deeply enough to go to the trouble.”

  For a long moment Sin just looked at her. “The evidence still points to him.”

  “Whose evidence? Kingsfeld’s?”

  “Not just Astin’s. Why did you go to see Lady Stanton?”

  “Because you weren’t here when I returned, and I kept thinking you might have gone to see Kingsfeld, and that you might…be in trouble. But your men said you hadn’t been there at all.”

  “I meant to go,” he said slowly. “I went looking for Astin first, and ended up spending most of the day racketing around London trying to find him.”

  She lifted her chin. “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to ask him to show me the rest of that paper he and Thomas were working on. The one with the brandy stain.”

  “You believe me,” she whispered.

  The relief in her eyes crumpled the remainder of his anger. “I said you had a good point. When I couldn’t find him, I stopped by to see Kilcairn. He doesn’t recall any proposal like the one you found in Thomas’s office being presented in Parliament.”

  She took a step closer to him. “Which means?”

  “Which means you may have found the key. But I still can’t be certain yet who pulled the trigger. We know that Marley had motive. I don’t know yet about Kingsfeld.” Sin closed his eyes. “But I will find out.”

  Her arms slid around his waist. He opened his eyes again as she tucked her cheek against his chest. “Whatever the outcome,” she murmured, “you’re very close. I know it. Just please be careful.”

  Sin wanted to ask her why she’d been worried about him, why she wanted him to be careful. With the way he’d treated her and used her, though, he wasn’t certain enough of the answer to ask the question.

  “I’ll be careful if you’ll be careful,” he said instead. “No more going off alone with Marley.”

  “I won’t—if you’ll stop sending Roman out to spy on me. I don’t like that, Sinclair.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll call off Roman.” He’d make certain Wally took over the valet’s assignment, but she didn’t need to know that—not until everything was over with and she was safe.

  He slowly wrapped his arms around her, and she sighed. “Now. Who were you yelling at before?” she murmured.

  “Roman and Milo. I told them to make friends or kill one another.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll put five pounds on Roman.”

  “I don’t know. Milo’s fairly scrappy, and he’s definitely got a longer reach.”

  “What if they do one another in?”

  “It’ll save me the trouble.” Slowly and reluctantly he released her. “Have you seen the office?”

  “No.” Victoria twined her fingers with his. “Show me.”

  The old Sinclair would have pulled every last bit of information out of Vixen regarding her conversation with Marley. Every word and every nuance would have been revealed and analyzed and categorized. Crispin would say he was losing his edge. This Sinclair, though, trusted that Victoria had told him what he needed to know. This Sinclair wanted to know if his wife liked her new desk.

  His bedchamber door remained closed, but he heard only silence. Either the two men were having a civil discussion, or they were both unconscious.

  “What do you think?” Victoria whispered.

  “Too soon to tell. If they don’t appear by dusk, I’ll go look in on them.”

  “Why were you so angry with them, anyway?”

  He tightened his grip on her hand, reminded of how worried he’d been. “Their reluctance to communicate compromised your safety.”

  Victoria stopped, looking up at him. “I had the same concern—about you.”

  “You actually do worry about me, don’t you?” he asked wonderingly. She seemed so strong and so fragile at the same time; an enigma who needed protection, but who seemed equally determined to keep him from harm.

  “Of course I do. You’re my husband, Sinclair Grafton. You’re…important to me.”

  Sin leaned down to capture her mouth with his own. Sweet Lucifer, she was tempting. This life was so tempting. He wanted it, and he wanted her in it. But one damned thing stood in the way; and if he couldn’t resolve it, the chasm it would leave in their lives would keep them apart forever.

  With the master bedchamber occupied, Victoria lured Sinclair into her private sitting room. Lord Baggles vacated the couch just in time to avoid getting squished, and as Sin slipped her out of her walking dress with his usual efficiency, Victoria hoped that Mungo Park was elsewhere in the house. That silly bird was acquiring quite a vocabulary.

  Whatever worries or concerns he might have, Sinclair had the unique and delightful ability to make her feel safe and loved and secure. By the time they emerged, her hair loosely tied with a ribbon because he couldn’t manage anything else, it was dinnertime.

  “Stop fiddling with it,” she said, slapping his hands away from her hair.

  He chuckled, drawing her back into his arms. “You should always wear it like that. You look like a fairy princess.”

  “Oh, yes, I can see myself walking into Almack’s with my hair down. They’d think I was a complete savage.”

  Sin ran his fingers through the long tresses, then kissed the nape of her neck. “Then wear it like this at home. I know you’re a savage.”

  Stifling an attack of the giggles, and relieved that his tense, worried mood had lifted, she patted his cheek. “Oh, dear. You’ve gone completely insane.”

  “Good evening, my lord, my lady.”

  Milo stood at his usual post in the dining room doorway. His left eye was bruised and swollen nearly shut, but he seemed cheery enough.

  “Good evening, Milo. Are you all right?” Victoria asked.

  “Splendid, Lady Althorpe.”

  Sinclair stepped around her. “And how is Roman?”

  “You would have to ask him, my lord.” His lips twitched. “He seems to be a very…resilient fellow. As you requested, there will be no more miscommunications.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  As Sinclair held her chair out for her, Victoria leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “If you can make those two get along, I really think you can accomplish anything.”

  He smiled at her, his amber eyes dancing. “Thank you. I’m almost beginning to believe you.”

  Chapter 15

  Lord Kingsfeld was about to go out for the evening and make his call on Sinclair Grafton when Sin himself knocked on the front door.

  “Show him in,” Astin instructed Geoffreys, as he settled into a chair in the library and opened a book of poetry.

  Sin appeared on the butler’s heels. “Astin,” he said, coming forward and extending his hand. “I’m glad to find you at home.”

  “What can I do for you, my boy? Have a seat.”

  The new Lord Althorpe sank into the chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “I was wondering. That proposal—the one Marley spilled brandy
on—do you have the rest of it?”

  Astin blew out his breath. “I suppose I’ve got bits and pieces of it somewhere. Thomas was actually writing the treatise; I was just making notes.”

  “Was it ever put before the House?”

  He’d been wise to produce a supposed part of the proposal; if Sin had found any of it on his own, the questions would have been much stickier. “Sadly, no. It wasn’t complete enough, and without Thomas…well, I’m afraid I didn’t have the heart to finish it on my own.”

  Sin’s expression darkened. “Don’t blame yourself. But whatever you’ve got would be helpful.”

  “I’ll go through my papers, then.” He paused, letting Sin notice that he was hesitating, then set his book aside. “I did find…something else, quite by accident. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but I thought I should at least mention it to you, and let you decide its merits.”

  “You have my attention.”

  Fumbling as though he’d forgotten which pocket he’d deposited it into, Astin curled his fingers around the piece of torn note and pulled it free. “I’d been using it as a bookmark,” he said apologetically. “Thank goodness I decided to reread my Homer.”

  Sin took the torn page and turned toward the firelight. Watching the younger man’s countenance as he read the fragment, Astin allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction. Poor Marley. At the moment he’d give the viscount equal odds between being hanged and being shot dead by Sinclair.

  “It’s Marley’s handwriting,” Sin murmured. “What was it, a letter?”

  “Yes. As I recall, we laughed about it at the time.” He drew his face into a frown. “It doesn’t seem so amusing now.”

  “Even with most of it missing, it’s clearly a threat.”

  “It seemed like one—but tempers were so short at the time, nearly everyone was writing nasty notes to one another. It may well be nothing.”

  “Or it may be something.”

  Sinking back again, Astin shook his head. “It’s so odd. At the time I would never have suspected Marley. Once you mentioned your concerns about him to me, though, all the strange little bits seemed to fall into place.”