Charles didn’t immediately respond. Both she and Nicholas could now hear what he had; horses trotting up to the front steps. Charles started to smile, a smile that grew to unholy proportions as he turned back to them.
“Not visitors—Dalziel’s sent reinforcements.”
Two of them. Charles strode out to the front porch to greet them. Penny and Nicholas followed more slowly.
Charles went down the steps as the pair handed their horses to the grooms who’d come running. The men turned eagerly to meet him; there followed much shaking of hands and slapping of backs, and a few pointed, distinctly jocular remarks Penny suspected she wasn’t supposed to hear.
The newcomers saw her and Nicholas; the trio turned and came up the steps.
“Your man at the Abbey told us you’d left instructions for all communications from London to be forwarded here—we decided, in the circumstances, we qualified.” The taller of the two, a few inches shorter than Charles, smiled winningly at Penny as the three men stepped onto the porch. With fairish, wavy brown hair and hazel eyes, his clear-cut features set in an amiable expression, he was startlingly handsome in a quintessentially English way; he bowed gracefully to her. “Jack Warnefleet.” His eyes twinkled as he straightened. “Lady Penelope Selborne, I presume?”
“Indeed.” She smiled and shook his hand.
“Lord Warnefleet of Minchinbury,” Charles clarified, halting beside him. “And this—”
The second gentleman smiled and reached for her hand. “Gervase Tregarth.”
“Earl of Crowhurst,” Charles added.
Surrendering her hand, Penny instantly placed Tregarth as a fellow Cornishman; he had the typical long planes to his face, the long limbs, and the short, curly hair often found on denizens of the region close to Land’s End. His hair was a soft mousy brown, his eyes an amber shade of hazel, paler in color than Jack Warnefleet’s, also sharper.
Smiling in return, she shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you both to Wallingham Hall.”
They turned to Nicholas; Charles performed the introductions. Standing back, Penny seized the moment to examine Dalziel’s reinforcements.
They were an interesting pair, tall, well proportioned, attractive; presumably, like Charles, they possessed other talents, too. Physically Charles was the most flamboyant of the trio, the one who caught the eye. Jack Warnefleet wasn’t far behind him in that, albeit in very different style, yet watching him greet Nicholas with genial bonhomie, she wondered how much of his lazy, laughing amiability was a mask. Like Charles, she would swear his cheeriness was a facade and, behind it, he was a man with secrets.
As for Gervase Tregarth, his was a quieter, more austere handsomeness. He was altogether quieter; a quality of stillness hung about him that even the fluid grace with which he moved did not disturb. It occurred to her that like the others, he possessed a reserve, a distance he preserved from the world, but in his case, it was part of the cloak he habitually wore.
They were different, yet in many ways alike.
The introductions and exchanges complete, she moved forward to lead them into the house. “I’ll have rooms prepared for you.” She glanced back, met their eyes. “Your luggage?”
Jack looked at Charles. “We weren’t sure of your dispositions—we left our things at the Abbey.”
“I’ll have them brought here.” Charles waved them on.
Penny led them into the library. Crossing to the bellpull, she tugged, then moved to sink down on the chaise. The men gathered chairs about the fireplace, leaving the chaise to her and Charles. When they sat, she asked, “Tea and crumpets, or bread, cheese, and ale?”
They all opted for the cheese and ale. Guessing Jack and Gervase hadn’t eaten since morning, when Norris appeared, she ordered a substantial tray. Charles asked for the luggage left at the Abbey to be fetched.
“So,” Jack said as Norris departed, “what’s been going on down here?”
“All Dalziel told us,” Gervase said, “was that you’d fallen feetfirst into murder and mayhem, and could probably use a little support.”
“Murder certainly,” Charles said. “As for mayhem, that might yet come.” He proceeded to outline events as they’d unfolded, digressing to describe the Selbornes’ wild game. Like Charles, Jack and Gervase were intrigued; they, too, expressed ardent interest in meeting Nicholas’s incorrigible sire.
By the time Charles brought them up to date, the bread, cheese, and ale Norris had quietly supplied had been devoured. Even Nicholas had partaken. Penny thought he looked considerably better.
“The one thing I really don’t like is that business of him smashing the display cases.” Gervase looked at Nicholas. “You said he sounded enraged?”
Nicholas nodded. “He was swearing, and that was before he saw me.”
“Not the usual coolness one associates with a professional.” Jack looked at Charles.
Tight-lipped, Charles nodded; Penny was instantly certain the point had occurred to him previously, but he hadn’t deigned to mention it. “It fits with him being younger than we are, less experienced. Killing the maid, for instance, was an unnecessary act that called attention to his presence and alarmed and alerted the staff of the very house he needed to enter. He didn’t need to do it, but he did.”
“He’s vain,” Jack concluded. “He’s also a bully, thinking to frighten people, and sure he’ll get away with anything.”
“That sounds right,” Gervase said. “Which is where we step in to teach him otherwise.”
Charles and Jack murmured agreement.
After a moment, Gervase looked up; he raised his ale mug to Charles, Penny, and Nicholas. His smile dawning, he drawled, “We haven’t said so, but we’re deeply grateful to you for giving us a chance to quit London.”
Jack wholeheartedly agreed, and drank.
Eyes wide, Charles regarded them in mock-surprise. “I thought you both had plans?”
Jack and Gervase exchanged glances, then Gervase nodded. “We did.”
“Unfortunately,” Jack said, “the matchmaking mamas had even bigger plans.” He shuddered eloquently. “In reality we’re refugees seeking asylum.”
The day had flown; it was soon time to change for dinner. Penny had Norris show Jack and Gervase to their rooms, then headed for her chamber. Half an hour later, they fore-gathered in the drawing room, then went into the dining room. Taking the chair at one end of the table, she sat Gervase and Jack to either side of her and had them recount all they knew of the latest London events.
They proved excellent sources of information; like Charles, their powers of observation and recall were acute, even though it quickly became apparent they had little real interest in the entertainments of the ton. They’d expected to take an interest, or have such interest develop; instead, they’d been disappointed. The ton, even at its frenetic best, was not, she suspected, exciting enough—not at base real enough—to satisfy such men, not after their recent experiences.
She listened, encouraged them; Charles sat back, a smile playing about his lips, adding the occasional taunt or leading question. Nicholas watched, quietly amused; to Penny’s eyes, he was improving with every hour, although his wounds still clearly caused him pain.
Once the covers were removed, she remained while they passed the decanters, then at her suggestion they took their glasses and repaired to the drawing room to sit in comfort and talk. Inevitably, the discussion returned to the man they now referred to as “the French agent.”
“I agree it’s unwise to guess his identity when any day Dalziel will likely find enough to point an unerring finger at him.” Jack drained his glass, glanced at Gervase, then looked at Charles. “But can’t we work out some trap? One that will work regardless of which of the three he is?”
Charles leaned forward, his glass cradled between his hands. “Now you’re both here, that would be my choice. He doesn’t know you, or of you; there’s no reason he’ll know you’re here. Quite aside from any Selbornes, he’s
after the pillboxes, but now knows they aren’t easily accessible.”
He sipped, then went on, “Tomorrow I’ll show you the priest hole—it’s the perfect hiding place, obvious once you know of its existence. Our first hurdle will be getting details of the priest hole to him in a way he’ll believe.”
“There are ways and means.” Gervase grinned. “He’d believe a priest, wouldn’t he? I do quite a good impersonation—how about as a clerical scholar come to study the priest holes of the district? Give a minor social event, get the suspects together, and let me expound on my fascinating studies.”
Charles stared at him, then smiled and saluted him with his glass. “That would work.”
The clock chimed eleven. Penny glanced at Nicholas. He was wilting again. She caught Charles’s eyes.
He nodded almost imperceptibly, stood, and stretched. “We can develop our approach tomorrow, after you’ve viewed the hiding place itself.”
They all got to their feet. Penny led the way upstairs, paused at the stair head to bid them all good night, then sailed—alone—down the corridor to her room.
Charles joined her ten minutes later, entering the room a mere minute after Ellie had left. Seated at her dressing table brushing out her hair, Penny glanced at him in the mirror, a warning on her lips, simultaneously realized how silly any such warning would be. Given the state of her bed every morning for the past week, Ellie would long ago have realized she was no longer spending her nights alone.
The thought sent a small, self-seductive shiver through her. She studied Charles’s face as he walked farther into the room, shrugging off his coat, then starting to unknot his cravat; from his expression, he was already formulating, rejecting, and developing elements of a possible plan.
Refocusing on her reflection, she fell to more vigorously brushing her hair while she considered, absorbed, how relieved she felt now Jack and Gervase were there. She knew beyond question that Charles would stand between her, Nicholas, and everyone else who was innocent, and the murderer, like a human shield protecting them. It wasn’t that she’d thought, not even entertained the thought, that he’d fail.
But he was no longer facing the murderer alone.
Gervase had said he and Jack were grateful for the opportunity to leave London. She in turn was grateful they’d come.
Rising, she snuffed the candles in the dressing table sconces, leaving the candle on the table beside the bed to cast a soft glow. She’d donned a long white nightgown, purely on Ellie’s account. Charles, in shirtsleeves and breeches, sat on the bed to ease off his boots. Drifting to the open window, she leaned against the frame and looked out at the courtyard, a sea of moon-washed shadows. “Jack and Gervase are members of your club, aren’t they?”
When Charles didn’t immediately reply, she glanced back to see him standing, barefoot, stripping off his shirt. She sensed his hesitation, and softly laughed. “You needn’t think you’re giving anything away. It’s rather obvious—you’re all very much alike.”
“Alike?” He tossed the shirt over a chair, slowly walked toward her. “How?”
She watched him draw near, considered the excitement that licked down her nerves, that slowly tightened them. “There’s a scent of danger about each of you. Beneath your glossy veneer, you’re all dangerous men.”
He halted before her, studied her face. “I’m not dangerous to you.”
She reserved judgment on that; she let her lips curve, her brows quirk teasingly. “It’s rather…fascinating.”
He stepped closer, backing her against the window frame. “I’m not sure I approve of your being fascinated by them.”
Latent jealousy roughened his drawl. She laughed, relaxing against the wood at her back, sliding her arms around his neck. She looked into his dark eyes, black as the midnight sky. “I’m hardly likely to exchange your attentions for theirs.”
He looked down at her; in a flash of insight, she realized he was sure of her, that he knew he no longer needed to ask, but could be his true self, that he could demand and be certain of her response. His gaze lowered to her lips; one palm cruised the side of her waist and made her shiver.
His dangerousness hung in the air, shimmered, alive, around them. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice deep and low, “I ought to convince you.”
She licked her lips, felt her pulse accelerate, her body respond. “Perhaps,” she replied, locking her gaze on his lips, “you should.”
He didn’t wait for further encouragement; his hands gripped her waist, his lips covered hers, and the danger closed in.
She gave herself up to it, caught her breath when he ravaged her mouth, then stepped into her, trapping her against the wall beside the window. Excitement flared and raced down her veins. The hard wall was cool, her skin screened only by the fine fabric of her nightgown, no real protection. Not from the elements, not from his hands. They roughly searched as if learning her anew, as if he’d never had her naked beneath him before.
His lips and tongue commanded, held her senses captive, riveted on the dizzyingly potent threat he represented. Even though she knew it wasn’t real, that it was perception, not reality, her senses remained mesmerized, tensing, reacting, as if it were. As if she truly were his prey, and he was dangerous, as unrestrained and sexually powerful as she knew he had it in him to be.
Shivers of anticipation coursed her spine. She was dimly aware he’d pushed a hand between them, unfastening her nightgown, then he raised that hand and pushed the gown off her left shoulder, baring her breast.
He broke from the kiss and looked down, with deliberation cupped the lightly swollen mound, smiled as her flesh firmed. He closed his hand, then with his fingers caressed, slowly drawing sensation to the peak before closing his fingertips about it.
Head back against the wall, she sucked in a tight breath, tried to steady her whirling head. Watched his face as he possessed, for it was definitely that, a claiming. “Did you ever imagine…make up stories…?” Her voice was a breathless thread, but he heard.
After a moment, he consented to reply, “My youthful fantasies ran more to pirates and the sirens they captured. Who then captured them.”
His gaze flicked briefly to her face, then returned to her breast, now aching and tight. He shifted, pressing down the other side of her gown, transferring his attentions to her other breast. His face, chiseled and hard, looked unbearably male, unbearably beautiful in the moonlight.
She licked her lips. “Those sirens…what were they like?”
He glanced again at her face, then reached up and caught her wrist, lifted her limp hand from his shoulder, drew it down, and pressed her palm, closed her hand, about his erection.
She heard the sharp intake of his breath, sensed the sudden leaping tension as she boldly obeyed and caressed him.
From beneath heavy lids, eyes gleaming, he watched her, shifting his hips, thrusting languidly into her hand. “Strange to tell, those sirens were like you.”
He bent his head and found her lips, teased, taunted, while his hands ministered to her breasts, fracturing her senses.
She drew back, gasped weakly, “Like me?”
Beneath her hand, his erection felt like iron—heavy, hard, and rigid.
“They looked like you.” Releasing her breasts, he framed her face, tipped it up, searched her face, her eyes, then bent his head and took her mouth in a searing kiss that abruptly plunged them back into dangerous waters. Into the dark, swirling promise of what might be.
Into the realm where fantasy and reality wove one into the other and back again.
His hands drifted from her face, gripped her hips; he shifted into her, pressing her to the wall, impressing his hard, flagrantly masculine body on hers. Insinuating one hard thigh between hers, he lifted her until she rode the steely muscle, potent threat and promise combined.
Brusquely, he pulled back from the kiss, murmured against her lips, “Like you, they were always wild.”
His lips returned to hers, dominant and c
ommanding, rapaciously plundering; she met him, matched him, and refused to yield. Boldly challenged him instead, then shuddered under the onslaught, the undisguised, unrestrained, elemental passion he unleashed.
Abruptly her wits were spinning beyond her control, her senses dragged down, immersed in the greedy heat pouring from him, in the furious clash of desire and need. Her limbs weakened, her flesh softened, waiting, wanting, yet still daring to hold against him; with every passing second, the empty ache burgeoned and grew, and drove her to surrender.
Then she felt her nightgown shift, realized he was raising it. Without conscious thought she eased her grip on him, drew her palm slowly, tauntingly, up his length, then searched for the buttons at his waist. She found them, flicked them free, pushed aside the folds of his clothing, and found him.
A Lady of His Own Page 40