by Olivia Drake
“I’m aware of it.”
“Miss Alice took quite a fright. Just now, I was assuring her that Mama’s bark is worse than her bite.” Henry chuckled. “That is, when she isn’t playing cricket with the candlesticks.”
Alarmed, Lucas scrutinized Alice’s perfect complexion. “She didn’t do you a harm, I hope.”
“N-no. But … I don’t think she liked me very much.”
With her lower lip pushed out, she resembled a forlorn child who’d been scolded and sent to stand in the corner. He patted her hand. “You mustn’t draw the wrong conclusion. The marchioness has her bad days, that’s all.”
“Yes, every day,” Henry added unhelpfully. “Next time, Miss Alice, let me know when you come to call on her. I can always coax a smile out of the old harridan.”
Alice looked distressed at the notion of facing Lady Dashell again. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. She glanced over her shoulder as if seeking an excuse to slip away.
Lucas had no intention of letting her go. Though, if truth be told, he felt a trifle impatient with her lack of pluck. The prospective wife of a marquess should be made of sterner stuff. But she was very young. Perhaps she just needed time to mature into the role—and he could mold her, as well.
Taking hold of her arm, he subjected his brother to a pointed stare that conveyed the message to make himself scarce. “Thank you for watching over her, Henry. I’ll partner Alice in the next set. With her permission, of course.”
The orchestra began playing a sprightly reel, and Alice allowed Lucas to guide her onto the dance floor. Yet she still looked a trifle nervous of him. Did she fear he might rebuke her for visiting his mother? Little did she know he didn’t hold her at fault.
He blamed Rory Paxton.
The thought of Rory fed fuel to the fire of his discontent. His mind served up the memory of her fine features, those sparkling dark eyes, the bold tilt of her chin. It had been a mistake to hire her. One day in his house and already she had wreaked havoc in his ordered life. Once he had smoothed Alice’s ruffled feathers, he’d stay at the ball only long enough to escort her for the midnight supper.
Then he would return home and dismiss Rory from his employ at once—even if he had to drag her out of bed to do so.
* * *
Rory tiptoed through the dark entrance hall. Gloom cloaked the chambers on either side of the front door, and the eerie stillness amplified her every footfall. The candle in her hand cast shaky shadows over the classical busts set into niches in the walls. Her skin prickled beneath her night robe. The marble eyes of those statues seemed to follow her progress as she made her way toward the grand staircase.
The sudden bonging of the casement clock from inside the library made her jump. Twelve sonorous booms echoed through the vaulted foyer. Midnight. She would have to hurry.
Rory had just finished searching Lord Dashell’s study. In addition to seeking the stolen letters, she’d wanted to view a sample of his handwriting. But the drawers of his desk held mostly official documents from Parliament, and it was unclear who had written them. The bottom drawer had revealed a collection of unpaid bills, giving credence to his state of penury.
Then she’d chanced to look in the dustbin. She’d found a crumpled, half-finished memo to his banker regarding an extension on a loan. It was penned in a terse, efficient hand that lacked the curlicues in the blackmail notes. The problem was, she couldn’t be certain the discarded memo had been written by Lucas Vale. He employed a male secretary who took dictation and copied out letters for his lordship’s signature.
Frustrated, she’d hunted high and low for the packet of letters, but had been unable to locate a safe or a strongbox. Nevertheless, she would not accept defeat. His study wasn’t the only hiding place in this vast house. She intended to have a look through his bedchamber, as well.
Grateful that no footman stood on duty by the front door, she hurried up the marble steps of the grand staircase. The rest of the staff had retired to bed since they were obliged to arise before dawn. According to kitchen gossip, Lord Dashell had gone out to a ball and wasn’t expected to return until the wee hours. That meant two or three at the very earliest. During Rory’s debut, the younger set had often danced until dawn.
She ought to have ample time to conduct a search.
After that disastrous visit today, Dashell would have to devote himself to making peace with Miss Alice Kipling. He would do everything in his power to charm the girl—if such a skill was even possible for so humorless a man. She only wondered why he hadn’t yet popped the question. Marrying an heiress would be far more lucrative than demanding payments from Kitty.
Perhaps he needed funds to purchase a betrothal ring. He might not own one if he’d been forced to sell off the family jewels in order to hold his creditors at bay. Yes, that made sense. He must be so far in debt that no jeweler would extend him credit.
Upstairs, she made a detour to peek into Lady Dashell’s darkened chamber. Steady snores emanated from the four-poster bed. Heaven forbid the bad-tempered woman should awaken to find her companion missing. Until Rory had those letters in hand, she couldn’t afford trouble.
She quietly shut the door. Earlier, when Mrs. Jarvis had delivered dinner, Rory had queried the housekeeper about the many bedchambers. Most were empty, save for the ones occupied by Lady Dashell and her two sons. Lord Henry’s room was situated halfway along the passage; thankfully, he too was out for the evening.
As she hastened through the shadows, the only light came from the candle in her hand. The threadbare carpet muffled her footsteps. At the end of the baroque corridor lay the marquess’s suite.
Rory stopped in front of his door. Her heart thumped as she glanced up and down the deserted passageway. Just to be safe, she rapped lightly on the painted wood panel and then waited. All lay silent.
Emboldened, she turned the handle and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She proceeded through an antechamber furnished with gilt chairs and fancy vases on tables. An arched doorway led into his bedchamber.
She lifted her candle to survey the spacious room. The décor was elegant yet masculine with dark mahogany furniture against the walls: a writing desk, a chest of drawers, a glass-fronted bookcase. A pair of green damask chairs flanked an elaborately carved marble mantel, where banked embers glowed on the hearth. An enormous four-poster bed with brocaded gold and green hangings dominated the chamber. Fluffy pillows and bolsters created an inviting sanctuary.
Rory envisioned Lucas Vale lying on the linen sheets in a state of undress, his lips curved up in a smirk. He crooked his forefinger and beckoned to her to join him.
She banished the naughty image at once, along with a troubling warmth that bedeviled her insides. How absurd! Not only did she despise the villain, she doubted that he’d ever cracked a smile in his life. Like his mother, he’d been born arrogant and aloof.
The clock on the bedside table ticked into the silence, reminding her that time was wasting.
She hurried to the desk. It was smaller than the one downstairs in his study and had a front panel designed to be folded down and used as a writing surface. The interior had several rows of cubbyholes that contained rolled papers and quill pens and other paraphernalia.
Ignoring the inkpots and pencils, she unrolled one of the papers. The light of the candle illuminated a heading: Westvale Abbey. Below it, there was a list of abbreviated notations along with scribbled numbers:
17 ac. oak: 350
126 ac. to L. N.: 1100
Cull flock: 275
Several additional items proved just as cryptic. What did it all mean?
Upon studying the ciphers, she realized this must be the inventory of an estate named Westvale Abbey. Ac could mean acres. Was Dashell calculating what could be sold to raise revenue? Did he mean to cut down a large stand of oak trees, sell off acreage to a neighbor, and cull a flock of sheep for income?
It certainly appeared so.
She found similar lists in
the cubbyholes for three additional estates. Adding the figures in her head, she determined that he could scrape together some four thousand pounds. Had he done so? Perhaps he’d decided it would be better to preserve his holdings and instead procure the necessary funds through extortion.
Delving into the pocket of her peach silk robe, Rory withdrew the two blackmail notes. She laid them on the desk and compared them to the notations on the various lists. Just as in his study, she identified distinct differences in the handwriting. The estate listings were penned in bold, economical strokes unlike the flourishes in the blackmail notes.
She suffered a moment of doubt. What if Kitty had sent her on a wild-goose chase? What if Lord Dashell was not the villain, after all? What if the letters had been stolen by someone else entirely?
No. She must not allow misgivings to dilute her sense of purpose. He could very well have disguised his penmanship in order to avoid detection. After all, he wouldn’t want the notes to tie him to his crime.
Better to focus her attention on locating the letters. When she found them in his possession, that would prove his guilt once and for all.
After returning the papers to their cubbyholes, Rory arose from the desk. She peeked behind several landscape paintings to see if there might be a wall safe, to no avail. Undaunted, she picked up the candlestick and scanned the bedchamber.
Perhaps he’d concealed the letters in his dressing room. His valet would be the only person to venture there. No well-trained servant would dare to question the presence of a packet of billets-doux in his master’s possession.
Not even if they’d been written by Dashell’s father to Mrs. Kitty Paxton.
She headed through an open doorway half hidden in the shadows. Here, a spacious oblong room held all the trappings of a well-groomed gentleman. The antique furnishings included several clothespresses and cabinets, a bootjack, and a dressing table. On the washstand, beside a white china basin, lay a silver tray with a shaving brush, soap, and long razor.
On impulse, she picked up the bar of soap and lifted it to her nose. The enticing scent of pine made her toes curl inside her slippers. She recalled that subtle aroma from her interview with him. The bar was still damp, and she could see him standing here, shaving, perhaps stripped to his waist …
As if scalded, Rory dropped the soap back onto the tray. Enough of that nonsense. He was a villain, not a prospective suitor.
She began a systematic search of the cabinetry, opening the drawers one by one. Inside lay neat stacks of folded cravats, handkerchiefs, and stockings. Though it felt shockingly intimate to handle his personal items, she forced herself to reach into the back of each drawer to see if the letters might be stashed there.
Then she turned her attention to the trio of clothespresses against the wall. Opening the top of each one in turn, she found more articles of clothing: breeches and shirts and waistcoats. Ten coats hung in the wardrobe. That was hardly an overabundance of apparel for a nobleman who was expected to attend a wide variety of functions throughout the season. Nor was he a dandy. His attire consisted of sober hues, mostly dark blues and charcoal grays, with no yellow-striped waistcoats like the one his brother had been wearing earlier.
A row of footwear lined the bottom of the wardrobe. On the off chance that Dashell might have tucked the packet into a boot or shoe, she knelt down on the carpet to shake out each one. Her effort yielded nothing.
Stymied, Rory sat back on her heels. She had poked through every nook and cranny in the dressing room. What now? What if the stolen letters weren’t even in the house? It was entirely possible he’d stored them in a bank vault. Was there some way to trick him into retrieving them?
It was difficult to think here in his private domain while inhaling his distinctive masculine scent. Her gaze strayed to the copper bathtub in the corner as her wayward mind conjured the fantasy of him immersed in steamy water, his damp hair slicked back, his upper body exposed to her view …
Heaven help her. Was she so starved for male companionship that even a black-hearted scoundrel could tempt her?
No. She was an intelligent woman, armed with common sense and wise to the ways of the nobility. It was just that her nerves were on edge tonight. The sooner she found those letters, the sooner she could leave here.
With renewed determination, Rory carried the lighted taper back into his bedchamber and set it on the bedside table. The small clock there showed the hour to be a quarter past one, giving her sufficient time to complete her quest before Dashell returned home from the ball. She pulled out the single drawer to examine the contents. There was nothing unusual, only a few spare candles, a starched handkerchief, a tinderbox.
She picked up a small, leather-bound volume. Flipping through it, she realized it was a prayer book. The pages of the missal appeared to be well thumbed. How remarkable. Despite her overactive imagination, she could not picture Lucas Vale bowing his head in prayer. There wasn’t an ounce of humility in the man. He likely thought of himself as the Almighty.
At that moment, a rattling sound broke the quiet. The door handle!
Rory’s stomach took a dive. Surely it was only the valet come to wait for his master’s return. Still, that was bad enough!
She shoved the drawer shut and whirled around, looking for somewhere to hide. The dressing room? Perhaps the wardrobe?
She hadn’t taken more than a few steps in that direction when the outer door swung open. The large, black silhouette of a man came inside.
Chapter 9
Never trust a gentleman who is bent on seduction.
—MISS CELLANY
The newcomer strode into the darkened antechamber. In the blink of an eye, he passed through the arched doorway of the bedroom. His swift tread came to an abrupt halt.
So did Rory’s.
Her heart hammering, she stopped halfway across the open space between the four-poster bed and the dressing room. Her fingers pressed against the small leather-bound missal that she’d neglected to return to the drawer. She felt as trapped as a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. It was too late to conceal herself. Worse, the intruder wasn’t the valet at all.
It was Lord Dashell.
The candle burning on the bedside table illuminated his look of astonishment. His dark brows lifted and his iron-gray eyes fixed her with a disbelieving stare. An unbearable silence stretched out, disturbed only by the soft ticking of the clock.
Rory tried not to quail beneath that forceful gaze. She had to say something. To invent a plausible excuse for her presence in his bedchamber. Yet her mind remained stubbornly blank to all but the sight of him standing a short distance from her.
He looked exceptionally handsome tonight in a formal black coat with a gray watered-silk waistcoat. He had removed his cravat; the long strip of white linen dangled from one hand. His shirt was open at the top, displaying a wedge of bare chest. Catching herself gawking, she lifted her gaze back to his face in time to see his expression change.
A subtle seductiveness transformed those harsh features. His eyelids lowered slightly and one corner of his hard mouth quirked slightly in a suggestive manner. His scrutiny of her conveyed the alertness of a wolf eyeing his prey.
He dropped the cravat onto the nearest chair. Then he strolled forward and stopped directly in front of Rory. His gaze raked downward over her thin wrap, ogling the curve of her hips and bosom, where the tied sash at her waist defined her feminine shape. “Well, well, Miss Paxton. This is most unexpected. Though I cannot say it is unwelcome.”
Rory blinked. She had braced herself for his cold fury. She had thought he might even accuse her outright of searching for the stolen letters. Instead, he had leaped to an outrageous conclusion. The knave thought she had come to his bedchamber to seduce him!
Seeing his attention linger on her breasts, she realized that her robe had gaped open to reveal the lacy bodice of her nightdress. She grabbed a handful of slippery peach silk to hold the lapels tightly closed. It had been foolish not to put on
her day clothes, but when she’d crept out of bed she had feared to awaken Lady Dashell by making too much noise.
“I’m sorry, you’ve mistaken my purpose here,” Rory said. Much to her vexation, her voice came out breathy instead of firm.
“I rather doubt that. It’s clear now why you were so eager to live under my roof. And it wasn’t to take care of my mother.”
“I beg to differ—”
“Don’t deny it. Why else would you be in my bedchamber?” He let his forefinger lightly trace the outline of her face. “There really was no need for subterfuge, Rory. You could have come straight out and offered your services as my mistress.”
His touch made her skin tingle and her breath catch. So did his scent, that enticing blend of pine and leather. His closeness befuddled her thoughts. It made her long to stand on tipoe and invite his kiss, though that would be the height of folly.
Her mouth dry, she stepped back out of his reach. “Your mistress?”
“Yes. The arrangement could be mutually beneficial. And quite satisfactory to us both.”
His low regard for her character was a bitter pill to swallow. How galling it was to be treated so shabbily by a gentleman, as if she were a slattern in a house of ill repute. Yet in all fairness she could hardly fault Lucas Vale for his erroneous assumption. He’d come home in the middle of the night to find a scantily clad, ruined lady in his bedchamber.
What else was he to think?
Yet his unsavory offer wasn’t what unnerved her the most. It was seeing cold, caustic Lord Dashell transform into a seductive rake. Fantasies aside, she had never believed him capable of being anything more than a toplofty prig. She felt far safer with that stuffy nobleman than this sensual stranger.
Calculating the distance to the door, she edged away from him. Perhaps it was best to let him go on believing his false supposition. Otherwise, he might guess her true purpose. “I—I had better go, my lord. I’ve changed my mind. It was a mistake to come here.”