by Diana Lloyd
“If that is so, I know nothing of it.” Mind spinning with possibilities, Jewel thought back to any mention her mother ever made of her family. If her father hadn’t been considered good enough to marry her mother then, there was little hope they’d help either her or her father now.
“Would you like me to write your mother’s family?”
“So the poor colonial relation can show up on their doorstep begging for sanctuary? I’d just be confirming their judgment that my father was a poor prospect. I’m not giving someone else the chance to force me into a hasty marriage or pack me off to the wilds of Scotland. I’ll try to settle this on my own first.”
“You’re too stubborn and independent for your own good. I have the feeling your father would be proud of that.” Taking up a slice of the still-warm bread and cheese when the plate was pushed toward him, Oliver took a generous bite followed by a gulp of wine.
“I hope so.” Would he? There was no denying that her father had been preoccupied for the last two years. Thinking at the time that it was his anger and disappointment over her indiscretions with Eldridge, she now realized her father had had his own secrets. Secrets that’d put them both in peril.
After their impromptu supper, Elvy huffed up the stairs with folded horse blankets tucked under one arm and pulling a long board noisily behind. Working around them, she rearranged their meager quarters. With Oliver’s help, a length of rope, and a few horse blankets, one bedroom became two.
“Are you both agreeable to this arrangement?” Oliver asked as he surveyed their handiwork. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I’ve much to tell Penry and Mr. Bartleby.”
“You’ve news?” That Oliver had come to London for any other reason than to greet his Scottish maiden had not occurred to her.
“I was able to convince someone to tell me more about Mr. Smith and Mr. Gatts. It was enlightening information.” While his words sounded like good news, Oliver’s face tensed as he spoke.
“Tell me.” She supposed she had no right to ask after running away with his horses and carriage, but she asked anyway. It was as if the two of them were tied together, fastened by an invisible thread even when out of sight. Every move they made, whether good or bad, somehow affected the other.
“I apologize for the necessity of speaking poorly of your relatives, Jewel.” Oliver turned away and huffed out a breath as if his next words would be difficult for her to hear. “It was Dunwoody, your uncle, who put Smith and Gatts up to deceiving my father into signing the false deed. He not only wants me ruined—he wants control of both Winchcombe Abbey and the house on Clifford Street.”
“You didn’t even know who my uncle was when we first met at the ball. Why would he go to such lengths to ruin you?” Nothing that happened since her arrival made sense anymore. She should have been welcomed as a family member, her father’s letter should have been shown to her—was she just a pawn in her uncle’s dark dealings?
“My father.” Oliver spoke the words as if they supplied the answer to any question she might have. “I think my father may have won—or stolen—that pouch of diamonds from your uncle. I think Lord Dunwoody is trying to get them back.”
“Then give them back.” The answer was too simple for Oliver not to have thought of it already. There had to be another complication. “Return the diamonds and he’ll drop his outrageous claims against you. He might even be persuaded to release my funds and forget he ever knew either of us.”
“Hmm. Well—”
“You did it again, you made that noise. I knew there had to be more to the story.”
“I visited a jeweler today and had the stones examined. Only one was a real diamond and, it seems, your uncle isn’t the true owner. The diamond belongs to the king. Your uncle’s possession of it may tie him to a seditious plot.”
“Treason? My uncle?” After both her aunt and uncle had condemned her father so harshly for his political beliefs, the notion was a shock. “If you return the diamond to the king, surely he will dismiss any complaints against you.”
“And I have to explain to the king how I came to be in possession of a very large diamond that used to grace his father’s walking stick.”
“Wait a minute, my uncle stole the diamond from King George II, your father stole it from my uncle, and it needs to be returned to King George III without anyone being sent to prison?”
“That would be ideal, but there’s more to it than that. You see,” he continued, “I think your troubles and my problems are somehow tied together. Your uncle has rigged the game. Dunwoody invited us all to the ball for a reason. He knew my father had the diamond hidden away, most likely at Winchcombe Abbey or Clifford Street. He used his own daughter, Lady Udele, to trap me into marriage so she would become the lady of Winchcombe Abbey and could search as she pleased.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “I’m the one who stopped her.”
“Which set his second plan into motion. With the Abbey off-limits, he concocted a false deed for Clifford Street, hoping the diamond might be there. Knowing of your inheritance, he schemed to ship you off to the Highlands—most likely so he could get his hands on your money.”
“And you spoiled that plan by taking me off the carriage. My uncle must be furious with us.”
“He’s desperate, which makes him even more dangerous. I hate to think what he might do when he finds out you have your father’s letter.”
“I could not have arrived at a worse time. My father’s letter must have read like a windfall to a dishonest man such as my uncle.” Suspicions fell into place as she thought of the timing of her visit, the coldness of her aunt and uncle, and even odd bits of overheard conversations. “Oh God! My uncle had my father arrested!”
“That was my thought as well. When I spoke to him after our…indiscretion, he already knew your father was in prison. No post travels that quickly. He knew because he arranged it.”
“Turning in your father for treason was the perfect diversion from your uncle’s own suspicious activities. Your father was counting on his sister to protect you, but she chose her husband’s interests over that of her brother’s child.”
“I was nothing more than a game piece to them, something to be used and forfeited at game’s end.” At first, the realization made her knees tremble but rage soon caused her hands to clench into fists. “I will get my money. I’ll save myself.”
“Let me help you.” Oliver reached out his hand to hers. “We have a common enemy. We can help each other. Let’s get your money, redeem my good name, and send your uncle a message that he’ll not forget.”
“I don’t know all that my father has done, but I intend to get him out of prison, too.” Just how she thought they were going to accomplish that, she wasn’t sure. They needed more time and more information.
The letters! She still had both her letters of introduction and the letters from her uncle found in the Winchcombe attic. They hadn’t made much sense to her at the time, but Oliver might be able to glean something useful from them. “I want you to read my letters. I have them with me.”
“I promise to read them this time.” His voice betrayed his regret for not taking them seriously before.
Despair and reality settled Jewel’s shoulders and unclenched her fists. Oliver’s slow and methodical approach might serve them better in the long run. The man had the patience of a saint. Between the two of them, they would prevail. Retrieving the letters from her traveling case as Elvy settled into bed for the night, Jewel brought them out to Oliver.
He’d taken off his coat and waistcoat and hung them on hooks on the wall. His neckcloth was crumpled up on the table and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It was a state of undress she hadn’t bargained on when he said he’d be staying the night, and her face blushed warm with embarrassment.
“Here they are.” Brushing against his bare forearm as she placed them on the t
able, Jewel smiled at the sensation, her blush deepening. His presence gave her hope for the future.
Chapter Twelve
With Jewel and Elvy sleeping in the next room, there was no sound other than his quill scratching ink onto the page. He’d communicated with many lords and gentlemen of London over the past ten years. Not one of them knew him by sight.
Without defeating the challenge to his sanity, there’d be no defeating of Dunwoody. The Committee hearing could be called at any moment, leaving him little time to prepare. If he found no one to attest to his sanity, it would be a short battle indeed. He’d dash off as many notes as he could before diving into the letters. He was fighting a war on two fronts.
Oliver wasn’t accustomed to asking favors for himself. His bargains had all been made on behalf of his father and the estate. Uncomfortable with the circumstances, he reluctantly scratched out another request for support at the upcoming inquiry for the Committee of Privileges. Would they or could they testify to his sanity based upon ten years of anonymous business dealings via post and solicitor? There was little choice.
With no one but Penry and Bartleby to attest to his state of mind, he was as good as marked with the sin of insanity. Possibly witchcraft as well. All because of a talking bird and a love of midnight walks and starry nights. And the scar. Pulling over another square of paper, he maneuvered the ink into extremely sane and rational bends and swirls, forming reasonable words asking near strangers to help save his reputation. And possibly his life.
Hearing no sounds from the next room save gentle breathing, he slipped off his shoes and socks and wiggled his toes. He hadn’t the luxury of packing for an extended journey, and he’d need proper attire for the committee. Luckily, his brother was the same size, and he’d be able to cobble something together that would make him look less like a madman.
Until then, with a day’s worth of road dust clinging to his remaining clothes, he could at least brush them off and give his stockings a soak. With one last look to the bedroom, he pulled down his breeches, gave them a shake, and set them over the back of a chair. He didn’t dare remove his shirt, too, lest either one of the ladies happened to wander out. Long shirttails hid everything he had that they didn’t, so it would have to do. He’d get a new shirt from Penry tomorrow.
Getting back to the business of begging for his life, Oliver sat down and pulled over the last sheet of paper.
“Did you read them yet?” Looking sleepy and sweet, Jewel stood in the doorway in her night rail.
“I was just about to begin. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Go back to bed.” In his undressed state, it was best not to prolong this encounter. Standing up was out of the question.
“I’m so glad you came after me, Oliver.” Walking forward and placing her hand on his shoulder, Jewel leaned in closer and kissed the top of his head.
“What was that for?”
“Gratitude,” she whispered in his ear. Fearing it might be their last chance, he enjoyed the scent of her hair as he reached out and covered the pot of ink on the table.
“As I recall,” he said, brushing his cheek against her hand on his shoulder, “the first one was better.” It was. Whether it was from excitement, loneliness, or thankfulness, their first kiss had been better because it had been sincere. And on the lips. Their first kiss had been unexpected and intimate and had come from somewhere very near her heart.
“Shh,” she hissed, holding a finger to his lips. “From the look on your face, I thought you were going to kiss me back.” Needing no other invitation, he pressed his lips against hers. Welcoming his touch, Jewel circled her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. It was an impulsive move that served only to remind him how little clothing they were both wearing.
When she sat down on the edge of the table, he knew she understood the implications of being alone together. Pulling her closer, he rested his head on her breast. Afraid to move or speak lest he break the spell of carnal contentment, he waited for her to make the next move.
Convincing himself that she would stop, bid him good night, and retire to her bed after a minute more, he greedily indulged himself in her body. With gentle hands, he captured her waist and traced her spine while she ran her fingers through his hair.
She pulled at her nightdress to offer her breast to his mouth. Licking, kissing, and suckling, his breath grew urgent before he stood and pushed the chair away. He stood between her legs, the evidence of his arousal straining against the fabric of his shirt.
“Tell me to stop,” he pleaded in a harsh whisper. “I can’t do it of my own accord.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” She scooted herself to the edge of the table and wrapped her legs around him to pull him even closer. “I don’t know what new troubles tomorrow might bring, but I will have this. No one can take this away from me. God forgive me, I don’t want to stop.”
Greedy and urgent lips met as he pulled her closer and ground his body against hers. With only two thin layers of muslin between them, she wouldn’t have to imagine the effect she was having on him. Nearly crying out with relief when she wiggled her hips against him, he gathered fistfuls of fabric and pulled it away until flesh touched flesh.
“I want you,” he whispered. “More than anything. If you don’t, you need to leave now. Go back to bed, pull the blanket up tight, and we’ll both forget this ever happened.”
“This isn’t my first time.” Making the admission without meeting his eyes, Jewel placed her hand against his chest over his heart.
“It’s mine.” He let his words settle, waiting for her protest.
“Our first time together,” she said, pulling him down for another kiss.
The time for talking was over. Stepping away just long enough to pull off his shirt and toss it aside, he urged her arms around his neck and lifted her off the table. Cradling her bottom in his hands, he carried her two steps and pressed her back against the wall.
Frantic to be inside her, he ground himself against her until the flesh between them dampened with her need. He entered her slowly, gritting his teeth and savoring every exquisite inch. Pistoning his hips twice, he nearly lost control. Maybe it was all a dream.
Reacting to his hesitation, Jewel rocked her hips and breathed out a soft mew of pleasure. Matching her movements with his own, they quickly found a matching rhythm. There was no softening the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and he wouldn’t even if he could. The feel of her, the scent of their bodies, and the sound of their lovemaking all rose to a crescendo in his head that overruled any other thought.
Focusing on where their bodies met, he forgot to breathe as the first stirring of his ejaculation tightened his testicles. He opened his mouth to warn her, but no sound came out. There was no stopping. If only for this moment, she was his.
His release shook his body and weakened his knees. The intensity of spilling himself into her was far and away more satisfying than staining his bedsheets. No matter how well their problems were solved, no matter if he were found insane and beggared into the streets, he would have this woman as his wife.
…
Crawling back under the blanket, Jewel imagined she could still smell the scent of him on her skin, still feel the warmth of his hands, and taste his fervent kisses. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hoped to keep those feelings close until sleep claimed her. She’d not been abandoned. No matter what was still unsettled in their lives, the misery her uncle had visited upon them, or the war that raged an ocean away—she’d survived. And what happened between them made her feel more alive than ever before. Because she’d chosen it.
As her eyes drifted shut, she willed herself to dream of better days ahead. Of a time when she had her funds, her father was safe, and all was well. No matter where she lived, she had enough for a comfortable life, and she would always have tonight. Eldridge would no longer be the last man who touched her intimately; Oliver had erased
him completely.
The only thing keeping her from restful slumber was the niggling thought that she had used Oliver just as Eldridge had used her. That and the sound of Oliver sneaking away in the dark.
…
Leading Apollo out of the stable as quietly as possible, Oliver turned back to swing the door shut behind them. He’d rather have taken the carriage for his errands today, but getting it rigged would have made more noise and used up precious time. With one last glance at the upstairs window, he smiled at the memory of last night before climbing up to the saddle and urging the horse onward.
Knowing that Penry wouldn’t be coherent at this time of the morning, Oliver presented himself at the kitchen entrance to the town house on Clifford Street and rapped on the door. The young scullery maid who answered jumped back with a gasp at the sight of him.
“Oh, oh, s-s-sir,” she was finally able to squeak out.
“Good morn,” Oliver said, tipping his hat and stepping back from the door so as not to alarm her further. “I believe your master, my brother Mr. Chalford, is in residence. He’s most likely still abed, but it is urgent that I speak with him. I’ll wait here if you would please have someone fetch him.”
“No, sir.” Opening the door wider, she gestured for him to enter. “That is, I mean, yes, sir. Mr. Chalford is upstairs, I’ll ask the footman to wake him while I fix you a cup of something hot.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
After being led to a small sitting room, he was glad the maid ignored his refusal and placed a tray with tea, toast, and quince marmalade within reach. Spreading a generous dollop of the quince on a piece of toast, Oliver shoved it in his mouth and savored the tangy sweetness.
“I should have known you’d show up.” Looking around the room, Penry pulled his banyan’s belt a little tighter and took the seat across from his brother. “You didn’t bring the damn bird, did you?”