He wasn’t himself. Forcing himself on women was not his way, and to force himself on Kirsty was unthinkable.
Stumbling a little, he dropped his arm and carried on to his rooms. He’d never retained a valet, preferring to tend to himself. It was more than enough that his every need was taken care of without his having to as much as mention his desires. Some servant had already dealt with the lamps in his library, and built up the fire.
Papers everywhere.
Screwing up his eyes to see more clearly, he looked about the room. Papers and books. Some bastard had entered where he had no right to enter and pulled every volume from the walls of shelves. The books were strewn about the floor. Most were open, their leather spines bent. Max set down the decanter and stooped to pick up a copy of a favorite philosophy text. Clearly it had been quickly looked at and tossed down, as had many other treasured tomes.
And the drawers in his desk sagged open, spilling papers.
Searching. Someone had searched, and must have known what to look for. He remembered finding Hermoine there, but still didn’t believe she had been interested in the contents of the room. Had she been so, she’d hardly have allowed him to find her sitting there.
A single volume rested on the top of the desk. Open. Apparently the intruder had taken more time with this one and had probably sat to peruse its pages.
Max leaned to turn the book toward him. Evidently a volume he’d inherited among many that had already been here when he moved into the Eve Tower. He’d never seen it before. Crudely drawn pictures of copulation in various unlikely positions. He slapped the thing shut. A night when he was about to go, unwillingly, to an empty bed was not a good time to study graphic erotic instruction manuals.
Stepping over books as best he could, he made his way to the bedchamber. The furnishings were from the Orient, shipped back from his visits to those parts, and they pleased him. Heavily carved of ebony, and inlaid with brass and mother-of-pearl, deep green velvet draped the massive bed that rose to a soaring canopy. The rest of the furniture was simple, but also heavy and dark, as dark as the ancient wooden floors. On those age-blackened boards rested silk carpets in rich hues that shone softly in the lamplight.
The boy from Covent Garden had been blessed with great good fortune, and he must not forget to whom he owed his gratitude.
The cur who had entered his rooms unasked had been in here, too. Chest doors stood open, as did the wardrobe, and a fine shambles littered the floor.
To hell with it all. He would sleep and forget that he couldn’t have what he really wanted. Tomorrow he’d start the business of learning not to want at all.
He went about the rooms extinguishing the lamps while he stripped off his coat and cravat, and unbuttoned his collar. All energy left him. He snuffed out the last light beside the bed and lay, fully clothed, atop the mattress.
Of course she’d refused him. He’d insulted her. Resting a forearm over his eyes, he cursed himself for turning a sweet and precious moment into something tawdry. A gentle, well-brought-up girl, a God-fearing girl, and he’d asked her to become his mistress. He deserved to be flayed, not that he wasn’t already suffering more bitterly than he would at the wrong end of a cat-o’-nine-tails.
Tomorrow he’d apologize and tell her he’d momentarily forgotten himself.
He felt the atmosphere in the room change and lowered his arm.
Shadows coalesced, and shifted. He strained to see. It must be the brandy that made him see things that could not be there.
He heard the sound of breathing not his own.
Max remained very still. The truth of what had happened rushed upon him. He’d arrived in his rooms and cut the intruder off from escape. He longed to feel a weapon in his hand, but his pistol was in a pocket in the bed draperies, and he’d never reach it in time.
The breathing grew loud, a choking sound, almost a repeated, rasping cry. And the shadows took form. He made to roll from the bed, but a heavy body landed on top of him and blows rained on his head and torso.
“Damn you!” Max yelled. “I’ll kill you.”
The other didn’t answer. Instead he sat astride Max’s belly and a flash split the darkness. Max curled upward, against the man, but not in time to completely evade the descending knife. The blade glanced across his shoulder like a white-hot torch.
Max went for the other’s face. He missed, and found hair instead. He filled his hands and tore, and jerked until the man swore, and again the knife blade glittered.
“Bastard,” Max hissed. “Cowardly bastard.” With all the force in his body, he threw his assailant off and smiled with grim satisfaction at the yell when the man hit the floor.
Aching to get his hands on the pistol, Max did all that he could do. He fell upon the scrambling figure and grasped the knife-wielding wrist. They rolled over, and rolled again. Max kicked out, contacted shinbone, and enjoyed the scream that followed. His success was short-lived. His spine smashed into the open door of the wardrobe, and he lost his grip on the man’s wrist. Pain stole his breath. Sweat bathed his body.
“Now!” the other man yelled.
Max went to his hands and knees and crawled, keeping low. Spread-eagled like some great bird, the attacker launched himself, arms spread wide, and crashed on top of Max, enveloping him in a suffocating, iron embrace. He squirmed to his back and fought to throw off his burden.
An attempt to jerk a knee into the other’s groin failed. The man was heavy, and driven by a fury Max felt to his core. They rolled, and rolled, collided with the legs of a table and brought china and glass to shattering impact with the floor. Shards sprayed the back of Max’s neck. Force drove the needle-sharp glass into his skin, and he tried to brush it off.
Somehow he got to his feet, gasping, bent double, and staggered toward the door. Once more he was flattened beneath the weight of the stranger. Max tensed, expecting the knife to penetrate his body. Reaching over his shoulder, he captured one of the man’s ears and twisted. He twisted and pulled until the other screamed. Max made it to his knees again and lunged forward, with the heavy creature draped over his back.
The man brought a fist down behind Max’s waist and the pain that burst upon him tore the last of the air from his lungs. He coughed and slumped down. Sensing his advantage, the intruder struck again and again. Max managed to turn, faceup, and was rewarded with a boot in his gut. With all the strength that remained to him, he grabbed the booted ankle and held on, and saw why he wasn’t already dead of a knife wound. Moon through the window shone on the blade. Its owner had lost his grip on the weapon and it had slid away and beneath the bed.
Max fixed his concentration on the shining thing. Managing to cling to the jerking, booted ankle, he wrenched, and wrenched again, and brought the fellow sprawling down beside him. Max broke free and crawled for the glittering weapon beneath the bed.
He had the knife hilt in his hand when the bedroom door flew open and a familiar voice said, “I heard the bangin’ and came. Are ye ill? I canna see ye, Max. Are ye sick?”
She was silhouetted in the doorway. He opened his mouth to yell for her to leave, and in that instant, sobbing and swarming over him, his would-be assassin brought a bootheel down on Max’s hand with shattering, sickening force. Max cried out and released the knife—and found the strength to yell, “Kirsty, get away. Get away or you’ll cause the death of us both.”
“Unhand him,” she cried. “Unhand Max this minute, ye brigand.” And, rather than do as he’d told her, little Kirsty Mercer rushed into the bedchamber, whatever she wore flying about her and shining an eerie blue-white in the moonlight.
Instantly, the crushing weight lifted from Max’s body.
“I see ye,” Kirsty shouted. “Ye come t’me, ye cowardly creature. I’ll box your ears, and ye’ll wish ye’d stayed away from honest men. Come on.”
A burst of movement, and rather than presenting himself to get his ears boxed, a man who had come here intent upon murder, fled, pushing Kirsty aside, knock
ing her to the floor as he made his escape.
“Oh,” she said, gasping. “I told ye this was a coward. Pushin’ women about. He’ll never amount t’anythin’, ye’ll see. The likes o’ him never come t’anythin’. Wait till I find out his name, and I’ve another chance t’get my hands on him. He’ll wish he’d stayed and taken his punishment now. Ooh, the likes o’ him need more t’do wi’ their time. It’s all this modern notion of givin’ everyone time t’relax, as they put it. Gives louts like that too much time t’get into trouble. No direction. That’s the problem.”
Suddenly exhausted, Max dropped his head to his crossed arms and lay still on the floor. “You’re right,” he said weakly. “He’ll never come to anything.”
Chapter Twelve
“Do get rid of them, darling,” Hermoine said of Zinnia, Wisteria, and Dahlia. “They have absolutely no breeding, and they talk too much. Horace told me that when he was with Zinnia last night all she wanted to do was talk about the journal.”
The countess lowered her lorgnette. Seated on the Chinese daybed in the parlor she favored, she frowned and fidgeted, and muttered under her breath. She said, “Unfortunate that one of our gentlemen thought he might get information from her. That’s the only way she could have learned about the journal in the first place—by being asked leading questions.”
“I did warn you a long time ago that I thought it was a mistake to insist on continuing with business while we had such high stakes to deal with here in Scotland,” Hermoine said.
“And I told you, as I’ll tell you now, that I absolutely forbid you to make suggestions that would lead anyone to believe the girls are anything other than my protogées, daughters of a dear friend who died, and whom I promised that I should be certain to guide. Of their kind they are high-class, Hermoine. And they assist me in keeping certain very agitated gentlemen entertained rather than berating me because we don’t yet have the wretched journal.”
“You shouldn’t have contacted any of them until the journal was in our possession, and we had something to sell.”
“You seem”—Gertie said with pomp—“to have forgotten that it was the duke who approached me because that naughty Prinny mentioned me by name in his letter. And if anyone is to be blamed it is Prinny for failing to make sure his correspondence would be delivered in a timely manner after his death. Years, it took years for the duke to know of the journal’s existence and my supposed connections to the Covent Garden pickpockets.” She sighed hugely. “One of his wretched spies told him I was kept—I mean that I was, for a very short time, the close friend of the man who controlled those horrid, dishonest children.”
“If Prinny hadn’t mentioned you, we shouldn’t be by way of making a marvelous fortune.” Hermoine sniffed. “And one can hardly blame the dead if their solicitors take years to administer their affairs. After all, we all know these men of the law charge by the hour. Like people in a rather less respected profession. But Horace should have been able to find what we need this evening. He had plenty of time alone in Max’s rooms. I made sure of that.” She hadn’t, in fact, given Horace a great deal of time, but she would not tell the countess that.
“Well, he didn’t find it, and that’s that.”
Hermoine adjusted herself inside the heavily boned bodice of her gown. “I wish you hadn’t involved Horace at all. He’s a nuisance—well, most of the time he’s a nuisance although he is still as entertaining as ever from time to time. And now he’s probably sleeping peacefully and expecting us to do everything as usual. Well, if we are not able to get at the journal in any other manner, I shall just have to go through with a marriage to that man.” She shrugged. For Gertie to discover that Rossmara was less than enthusiastic about the match would be a disaster. “A complication, but it will be diverting, I’m sure. And you may be sure that once I have the run of his rooms, and anywhere else he may have used as a hiding place, I shall get my hands on what we need very quickly.”
Gertrude puffed at her veil and settled herself more comfortably. “I seem to recall that you were to accomplish the necessary quite easily because Rossmara would want you within his reach at all times. Doesn’t appear to be quite the case to me, my girl. No doubt he’s prepared to go along with his parents’ desire to secure him a suitable wife and has decided you will do, but you’d do well not to get too high an opinion of yourself. Remember, I know all about you. One false step, and I should be forced to punish you.”
“And what would that accomplish, since I should be forced to retaliate? You remember that we succeed or fail together in this.”
Without so much as a single knock, Horace came into the room. His face was redder and more shiny than was customary, a sign of even greater excess than usual. “There you are,” he said to Hermoine. “Thanks to you I had a damnable night. First rushin’ about looking for what we must have. Then panderin’ to that trumped-up street urchin and having to smile and agree with him. We don’t have time to wait for his pleasure. We need you in that house now.”
“Tell him not to speak to me in that tone, Countess,” Hermoine said. She settled herself at one end of a red-and-gold couch, struggled with her bustle and horsehair petticoats, and managed to pull her feet onto the seat. “I assumed you’d already taken to your bed, cousin.”
Horace laughed that infuriating laugh of his. “Oh, very graceful, I must say, m’dear.” He sauntered close and sat by her feet. “Charmin’ bit of lace on those drawers.”
She ignored him until he made a sudden lunge, thrusting his head beneath her skirts and managing to get both his face and his hands inside the garment in question.
Gertie laughed, actually laughed while Hermoine batted at him and squealed. “Stop that, Horace. Stop it at once. What if a servant comes in?”
His muffled response was indecipherable.
“Oh,” she cried, as his tongue found its target.
“That boy,” the countess crowed. “Insatiable, he is. Just like his father before him. I miss his father. This has always been such a close family.”
Hermoine grunted, and panted, and parted her limbs. There were times when one might just as well lie back and enjoy small diversions that came one’s way. Tension mounted, and she pressed her hips upward.
“Well, this is certainly an entertainment,” Gertie said. “We can always rely on Horace to brighten up a dull evening. Give it your all, Horace, my boy.”
Give it his all. Hermoine decided she should protest a little more and attempted to clamp her knees together. “Stop it, Horace. Stop it at once. Oh, Horace!” She fell back and gave herself up to the inevitable. “Oh, oh, oh, Horace!”
She was still in the throes, so to speak, when his now-purple face emerged, and he grinned at her and hoisted himself astride her hips.
“Oho,” Gertie chortled. “One good turn deserves another, I imagine, Horace. What do you say?”
Horace didn’t waste time on conversation, he simply extracted his own satisfaction from Hermoine’s lips, then wedged himself beside her, bared her breasts, and languidly nuzzled his face.
“Hmph,” Gertie said. “Well, if you’ve both had your little fun, I suggest we put our minds to the matter in hand.”
Horace laughed and busied his hand with the matter closest to him.
Hermoine smacked him away, but she giggled. “Concentrate, Horace, do. I understand we’ve houseguests at present.”
“We do indeed,” Gertie said. “And if anyone in these parts realized the elevated nature of those guests, they’d be crowding our doors to catch glimpses of them.”
“They’re only here because they’re frightened out of their britches,” Horace mumbled.
Reaching for a glass of port, Gertie said, “I imagine they’re all without their britches at this very moment, and fear has nothing to do with that little development.”
Hermoine laughed aloud. “I doubt they’d appreciate references to little developments. Melbourne and Brougham beneath our roof at the same time.” She played with Horace�
��s blond curls. “Who could have imagined such fortune as will be ours. We are in an enviable position, my loves. We shall be in the way of emptying some deep pockets before long.”
“So you say,” Gertie said, dipping a finger into her port and sucking the drops slowly. “Horace, have you told Hermoine about our conversation when you returned from Kirkcaldy?”
“My dear cousin hasn’t told me anything,” Hermoine said, pushing Horace hard enough to land him on the carpet. “Tell me now.”
“You’ve hurt me,” Horace said, rubbing his rump.
“You’ve a rival, my girl,” Gertie said.
“The little peasant? Hardly a rival. What does it matter to me if Rossmara is titillated by a game or two in his study?”
“You weren’t there this evening,” Horace said. “I tried to get the man to agree to an early betrothal. He absolutely refused. Oh, his excuses were fine enough. Wants his family here, and so on, but I’ve a notion there’s something else holding him back.”
“Don’t speak in riddles,” Hermoine told him pettishly. “Say what you mean.”
“Very well. When I arrived he was alone with the peasant. And they’d obviously been engaged in what you term a titillatin’ game.”
Hermoine shifted irritably.
“She left when I got there,” Horace continued. “And Rossmara couldn’t keep his eyes from the door—as if he expected her to return—or as if he could think of nothing else but her once she’d left.”
“Foolishness,” Hermoine said. “You always had a girlish imagination.”
Without hesitation, Horace turned and slapped Hermoine’s face. He slapped her so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. “Now,” he said, while she held her cheek and sobbed, “perhaps you’ll consider your words more carefully. There’s nothing of a girl in me, madam. We have a great deal almost in our grasp, but we could lose it all, I tell you. If we lose entry to that castle, we’ll have no more than the demanding company of famous men. You may find that entertaining, but we have bigger plans, and the Mercer creature could prove a great nuisance. Rossmara waited until he thought I had left, then went directly upstairs. They are much closer than you think, ladies.”
The Wish Club Page 15