Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  ‘Mr Inchbold, my lord.’ Lina did not dare look at Trimble, but she was sure that the butler’s perfectly modulated tones faltered when he saw them.

  ‘Show him in, if you please.’ Quinn raised his head from nuzzling her bare shoulder and pushed her to her feet. ‘Go and sit down, there’s a good girl. You’ve had the pearls; I’m selling the diamond.’

  Lina turned in a swish of silken skirts and sat down, thankful her chair was so close. Whether it was that kiss or the appearance of the Runner, she did not know, but her knees felt like jelly. She put her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, pouted her lips, and looked down the length of the table at the doorway.

  Inchbold was a solid man, not tall, but broad across the chest. He had a face that looked as though it had been in many a fight and would be quite happy to engage in a few more. He was dressed like a countryman of the middling sort: neat in good cloth of a plain cut, but with pockets that bulged and boots that looked as though they had moulded themselves to his big feet.

  ‘My lord. Miss Celina.’

  He was looking to see how she reacted to the name. Celina let her eyes stray over him in a leisurely assessment, then merely nodded.

  ‘Take a seat, Inchbold.’ Quinn waved a hand at the chair opposite Lina. It was a considerable concession to a man like Inchbold to offer him a chair at table. Lina wondered if Quinn intended to disconcert the other man, but he merely nodded his thanks and sat stolidly on the broad satin seat. Experienced and not easily intimidated, she thought, her stomach churning.

  Quinn poured two glasses of port and pushed one across. ‘Now then, this is my Miss Haddon. Are you going to tell me she is a witch who is able to be in two places at once?’

  Inchbold reached into the breast of his coat and produced a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and spread out on the table, flattening it under one meaty hand. ‘The footman who let the Shelley woman in is reckoned to be a bit of an artist,’ he said. ‘Seems this is a good likeness, by all accounts.’

  Lina glanced at the sketch that had been strongly done in charcoal and pastels. The man had caught her perfectly: wide-eyed with fear, her mouth a thin line as she pressed her lips together to stop them trembling. Now she maintained her sultry pout and let her lids droop. As she tipped her head on one side a loose ringlet brushed her cheek, quite unlike the simple arrangement she had worn at Sir Humphrey’s.

  ‘Who says that’s me?’ she demanded petulantly, copying as nearly as she could the London tones overlain with gentility that Dorinda, one of the girls at The Blue Door, used.

  ‘Information laid locally as a result of the notice in the Morning Chronicle,’ Inchbold said, continuing to look at the drawing and then back up at Lina. Mrs Willets, she thought. Mrs Willets and not my letter to Mrs Golding after all. ‘We knew you—’ Quinn cleared his throat ominously ‘—this Shelley female was seen at the Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, so it seemed likely she caught the Norwich coach—’

  ‘Or Bath or Bristol or Cambridge or…’

  ‘Yes, miss. Quite.’ The Runner glowered at her. ‘It was possible she caught the Norwich coach, so a respectable source local to here saying that a mysterious female had turned up aroused our interest.’

  ‘Who are you calling a mysterious female?’ Lina demanded.

  ‘You, my dear, are as mysterious as Woman always is,’ Quinn said, reaching out a hand and running one finger possessively down her cheek.

  Lina nuzzled against his hand like a cat seeking caresses and Inchbold’s scowl deepened. ‘You know London, do you, miss?’

  ‘Course I do.’ She tipped up her chin and gave him a saucy look. Goodness, but this was scary—and exhilarating. She would not think about Quinn, not yet.

  ‘Know the house of The Blue Door do you?’

  ‘All the girls know that one. Class place, that is. Not that I need a house, I like to be independent. You know, have my own gentleman, exclusive.’

  ‘And what were you doing in France?’

  ‘My last gentleman fancied seeing Paris, now we’re at peace with them again. Lost all his money in the Palais Royale at vingt-et-un, didn’t he? So he dumped me.’

  ‘And I picked her up,’ Quinn said. ‘I don’t believe in leaving a gaming house except with money in my pocket and a pretty girl on my arm.’ He reached out and picked up the sketch, looking from it to Lina and back again. ‘Inchbold, she’s blonde, she’s blue-eyed—as so many blondes are—and she’s a young lady of an accommodating disposition. But otherwise, where’s the resemblance? And delightful as it is to share a glass of port with you, I have to confess there are things I would rather be doing with my evening.’

  The Runner frowned. ‘Looks like I’ve been led on a wild goose chase.’

  Don’t show relief, don’t faint, don’t laugh… ‘Looks like you have,’ Lina said with a sniff. ‘And I know who sent you on it, too. That sour-faced old bat, Squire Willets’s wife.’

  ‘Taken against you, has she?’

  ‘Thinks I’m not respectable,’ Lina said.

  ‘Actually, she’s taken against me,’ Quinn interjected. ‘I have a certain reputation and Miss Haddon here does not take kindly to being given the cold shoulder. The ladies have had a set-to and one of them appears to be of a vindictive disposition.’

  The Runner eyed Quinn’s exotic evening attire and cleared his throat, then tossed back his port and got to his feet. ‘Aye, well, I’m sorry to have troubled you, my lord. Miss. And I thank you for your cooperation. There are those who would have taken umbrage.’

  ‘You’re just doing your job,’ Quinn said, his eyes cold and steady on the other man. ‘I have no quarrel with that. Just so long as you don’t exceed your authority and you know when a trail’s gone dead.’

  Inchbold nodded, clearly understanding the message he was being sent. ‘I’ll be off back to London tomorrow, my lord. You’ll not be troubled by us again.’

  Quinn waited until the front door shut, then rang for Trimble. ‘Trimble, send Jenks to me, would you? And, if you could intimate to the staff that Miss Haddon’s state of dress and behaviour is in the nature of a masque? The Runner was on a false trail, but it was hard to prove it without some subterfuge. There will be gossip.’

  ‘We do not listen to gossip, my lord,’ Trimble said loftily. ‘I’ll send for Jenks.’

  ‘Thank you—’ Lina began, but Quinn held up one hand for silence. ‘Not here.’ He began to walk around closing windows until the groom knocked and came in.

  ‘There’s two of them, my lord. The other’s been in the village and up along as far as Cromer. Interested in comings and goings here, by all accounts. I’ll have a word with Tomkin and get him and the underkeepers to keep an eye out round the house, shall I, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, do that. If anyone asks, it is a case of mistaken identity, but there is no need to go out of your way to volunteer anything. Thank you, Jenks, goodnight.’

  Quinn was looking at her, Lina realised, pulling herself together. Inchbold had gone, her letter to Aunt Clara had not been intercepted, she could breathe again.

  But not, it seemed, for very long. ‘Upstairs, I think,’ Quinn said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘I do not want to be overheard.’

  He held the door for her, allowed her to precede him up the stairs with perfect courtesy and then took her firmly by the elbow, steered her into his bedchamber and turned the key in the look.

  ‘Now then…’ Quinn put the key in his pocket ‘…did you take that sapphire?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you have anything to do with the man’s death?’ He began to undo the knotted-silk buttons down the front of his long tunic.

  ‘No—I—’ Lina broke off, honesty warring with the desire to just forget every detail. ‘He got very excited. I think he had a stroke. Or a heart seizure.’

  ‘Did he, indeed?’ Quinn threw the tunic on the chair and began on the shirt buttons. ‘You lied to me.’ His eyes slid over her, cold and detached. ‘I do not like being lie
d to. You told me you were married and hiding from a husband who abused you.’

  ‘You guessed that, I did not correct you. I did not think you would believe me if I told you the truth.’

  The shirt joined the tunic and Quinn sat down on the end of the bed and began to tug off his boots. ‘Yes, you were in a state, that first night, weren’t you, Celina? Trying on roles until you found the one that fitted. Efficient housekeeper, meek young lady, flirtatious demi-rep.’

  She bit her lip. It was difficult to look away from the muscled, bare torso. She had seen him naked, she reminded herself, but that did not help; in fact; it merely inflamed the confused feelings of fear and desire.

  ‘I must admit, when you settled down to fugitive wife, you did it very well,’ he said with the air of a man awarding praise for style. ‘You chose something that you realised would gain my sympathy. What lies did you tell Simon?’

  ‘None. I told him the whole truth. He knew my aunt, a long time ago. I think he may have loved her in his way.’

  ‘And who is your aunt?’ Clad only in his trousers, Quinn stood watching her, his hands on his lean hips, his bare feet flexing slightly in the deep pile of the carpet. She dragged her eyes away from them and up to his face.

  ‘She is Madam Deverill, the owner of The Blue Door.’

  ‘Not a pious spinster sewing hassocks, then.’ His face was so expressionless that Lina knew he was furiously angry. ‘She has imprisoned you there? You want to escape from her cruelty?’

  ‘No, she has been everything that is kind to me, I love her—’ She could not make Aunt Clara out to be the villain of this, even though that would perhaps win his sympathy. But if she could just get a word in, explain about Makepeace—

  ‘You were under my roof, enjoying my protection. I do not like being made an unwitting accessory to a crime, Celina. Especially not a capital crime. Do I look like a man who would tolerate being lied to? Being forced to lie?’

  No, he does not. No wonder he hates lies—look what that girl did to him with her falsehoods. Honesty in a woman must have become a very sensitive thing for him. ‘I told you, I haven’t committed a capital—what are you doing?’ His hands were at the fastenings of his loose trousers.

  ‘Undressing. We are going to bed.’

  ‘We? I am not going to bed with you, Quinn.’ She backed towards the door, realised too late it was locked and began to edge towards the pile of discarded clothes. Which pocket did he put the key in?

  ‘You want to make even more of a liar of me? I told Inchbold that you were my mistress.’ The heavy black silk fell to the floor and Quinn stepped away from it. Naked. Lina closed her eyes, but not before she saw just how aroused he was. This was no overweight middle-aged man, red in the face and groping for her. This was what she had been pretending to herself for days that she did not desire: a fit, handsome, athletic man in his prime. Liquid heat coiled in her belly. Simple, instinctive lust, Lina thought, dizzy with desire.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she protested. ‘I do not want to be your mistress, I told you.’ Liar, liar.

  ‘Oh, yes, I recall now. You do not want to be bought, you want to be loved for yourself. Money is so sordid, is it not?’ He had not moved, she realised, listening to his voice, fighting the urge to simply open her arms and give in. And she wanted to give in. Why? Because she desired Quinn, or because she wanted him to go on protecting her and if she became his mistress she was buying that protection?

  That was an uncomfortable thought, that she could barter her virginity for a bodyguard. And if I am not a virgin I have no value to Makepeace. Another reason to give in to what she so desired.

  Then I will be ruined. But I am ruined now. Or I might get with child—I could ask him to be careful…

  ‘Tell me, Celina. When I kissed you after dinner, were you hating it? Did you want me to stop? Was I forcing you?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted, dragged out of her confused thoughts. She could not lie about that. He had known she was responding, known she was aroused.

  ‘Tell me you do not want me to make love to you and I will open that door. I told you, I do not force women, even ungrateful, lying demi-reps.’

  The silence stretched on. She could hear her own breathing, hear the blood rushing in her ears. ‘I…I cannot tell you that.’

  She thought she heard him make a sound, a sigh perhaps. ‘This is your profession, Celina. You cannot afford to lose your nerve because of an unfortunate experience with one client. I’m not an overweight old man who needs help to perform and I do not need you to pretend to be a virgin. I would like you to enjoy yourself, too; it is not much fun for me if you do not.

  ‘But don’t stand there looking like a martyr waiting for the lions to come into the arena. I realise that is what you usually have to do and that you cannot relax and enjoy yourself under those circumstances, but you do not have to gull me into thinking you’re a virgin by screaming the place down and using pigeon’s blood and alum.’

  ‘I cannot tell you that I do not want you,’ Lina managed to say at last, focusing on the one thing that mattered to her, hardly hearing the cynical words about manufactured virginities. She opened her eyes.

  Quinn walked to the pile of clothes and dug in the tunic pocket. ‘Here.’ He came closer and held out the key to her. ‘Take it and then tell me again what you want.’

  ‘You,’ Lina said baldly, holding out her hand. Quinn laid the key on her open palm, she twisted her wrist and let the key slide to the floor.

  ‘I warn you,’ Quinn said, closing the space between them and laying his hands on her shoulders. ‘I am angry with you, Celina. I am not sure still if I forgive you. I am not in the mood for sweet nothings, for wooing, for games. I need a professional and no frills. You understand me?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Lina lied with no idea what he meant. ‘I am yours.’ She smiled, and felt as though she had stepped from the top of a tall tower into space. She was falling, but there was no terror, only the consciousness that she had made an irrevocable decision.

  If I am not afraid, if I don’t show fear, he will not know, surely? she thought. No, that’s another lie. I must tell him.

  ‘Quinn, you ought to know, it isn’t what you think, I really am—’

  ‘Later,’ he said, his voice husky as he began to unfasten her gown. ‘Now is not the time for talking.’

  ‘But—’ And then the gown slid from her shoulders and he bent his head and took her right nipple in his mouth, sucking through the fine lawn of her shift and Lina felt her protest vanish in a gasp as sensation lanced through her from breast to groin. Quinn’s fingers were busy with her laces even as he switched from one aching bud to the other, tormenting, licking, soaking the lawn until it moulded to her breasts.

  Her stays fell away and he lifted the chemise and once again she was naked in front of an aroused man. Panic seized her, then she looked up and met his eyes, clear, green, intent, and the fear changed into a quivering apprehension laced with need and desire. Not quite naked, she thought, biting her lip against the wild laughter that was bubbling up, trying to escape. I still have my stockings, my garters, my shoes.

  Quinn knelt, took her left foot and eased the soft kid slipper off, then took the other and removed that too. Lina caught her breath as she looked down on the dark head, bent so that the long hair parted, exposing his nape. He looked curiously vulnerable and she touched his head, a feeling of tenderness she had never experienced before sweeping away the shocking urgency of her desire.

  This is why women yield, she thought, no longer trying to understand why she was doing this. Expediency, desperation, the need for protection all vanished in the overwhelming need to be touched, to be loved, by this man. Then he leaned in, kissed her right leg above the garter, his hands stroking down over her hips to hold her, and any trace of tenderness melted into the desire.

  The bare skin was sensitive where it was constricted by the garter and Quinn’s questing mouth felt scandalously intimate as he licked upwards.
Lina groped behind her and found the bed post, seized it gratefully and hung on, waiting for him to stand. But the soft kisses, the wet, luxurious licks, kept travelling higher, higher until she gave a little scream as his tongue flickered into the moist secrets between her thighs.

  She had seen pictures of this in the wicked little books that were scattered around at The Blue Door, but she had never imagined that a man would do that to her the very first time they were together. Nor had she imagined it to be anything but embarrassing and strange.

  It was strange, yes. Her head fell back against the post as her hands reached out to cradle Quinn’s head, to hold him, to prevent him ever stopping this shameful, wonderful thing that was turning her into a quivering, liquid creature of flame and passion.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, standing up in time to catch her as her knees gave way. ‘But time for that later. Show me, Lina. Show me those skills you have been keeping so secret.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  He wants me to make love to him? Lina closed her eyes on the sudden alarm. I want him, I want to pleasure him…but he will guess, surely? Or would he? Could she counterfeit enough skill from what she had heard, observed, read in those explicit little pillow books? She had begun to understand her own body now, what pleased her, what made her shudder with terrified delight. Could she use that understanding to make love to Quinn?

  He was standing there, his hands supporting her, waiting. She opened her eyes and studied him under lowered lashes. He was beautiful and she wanted to touch him, to taste him. She licked her lips and saw his eyes following the movement, saw the effect that whatever was in his imagination had on his arousal.

  Lina turned, bringing him with her until his back was against the bed post, then she caught his hands and put them behind his back, making a pretence of shackling his wrists with one hand. She was so close that their bodies rubbed together intimately, sending heat spiralling through her. She was wet with desire for him already, she realised, trembling with daring at what she was doing.