“Close your legs,” he growled, moving his muscled limbs outside hers. “Close them tight.”
Diving his lips on hers in a devouring, demanding kiss, lust surged through him. As his member plunged relentlessly in and out of her tight channel, his fingers dug into her glorious backside.
There was no holding back.
As their sudden climaxes cascaded through their bodies, he raised his hips and pumped with abandon, his guttural groans joining her stifled wails in their never-ending kiss, until the sparkling convulsions dissolved, leaving them breathless and tingling.
* * *
A short time later, enjoying a late breakfast in the casual dining room, Malcolm looked across the table, and tilting his head to the side, he broke into a wide smile.
“Connie, you look especially beautiful this morning. Your face appears fuller, and your cheeks are rosy.”
“I believe I may have gained a little weight,” she replied happily. “Edith’s dresses are fitting me better, but I cannot wait to go out and buy new clothes. I hope she’ll come along.”
“I’m sure she’d be delighted. Would you mind if I joined you?”
“You? Goodness, my father would come up with any excuse to avoid going out with my mother and me.”
“I confess I haven’t shopped with a woman before,” he said with a chuckle. “I might feel as your father did, but I’ll enjoy finding out. We should go to Harrods on a major buying expedition. You’ll be seen, and the tongues will wag, but I have come up with a way to deal with them before they have a chance to doubt you.”
“That sounds interesting,” she said, picking up her teacup and taking a sip. “Do tell me. I love your ideas.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Corbin said, entering the room and approaching the table. “Detective Frank Colby and Viscount Simington are here to see you. I’ve left them in the drawing room.”
“Please lay two more places and bring them in.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I wonder why they’re here so early,” Connie remarked as Corbin left, and the footman began laying the two additional place settings.
“Something must have come up. They wouldn’t both show up out of the blue like this unless it was important.”
“Viscount Simington and Detective Colby,” Corbin announced, ushering them into the room.
“Good morning,” Malcolm said, rising to his feet. “Please, won’t you join us?”
“I’ve had my breakfast, though a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,” Edward replied, but Malcolm noticed the detective eyeing the delicious food on the buffet.
“Frank, you’ve probably been on the go since early this morning,” Malcolm said. “Please, help yourself.”
“I appreciate that, Malcolm. You’re quite right, and all I’ve managed so far is a mug of tea at the station.”
“Won’t you please tell us why you’re here?” Connie asked urgently. “I’m dying of curiosity.”
“Ah, yes, well, we have some rather startling news,” Edward began as he sat down and the footman filled his teacup.
“I’m not worried. I’m so used to startling news it probably won’t have any effect on me whatsoever.”
“You know I attended a dinner party last night to honor Samuel Mountbatten. It was at the home of Walter Fairchild. He’s the treasurer of the Egyptian Historical Society. I thought it would be a major event with most of the membership attending, but it turned out to be quite a small gathering. Anyway,” he said taking a breath, “Josephine Mountbatten and David Manning were there, which I expected. The thing is—”
“The thing is,” Frank said, interrupting him as he sat down with his plate piled high, “Josephine has joined her husband. She choked on a fish bone.”
“Good Lord!” Malcolm exclaimed.
“Sorry, Edward,” Frank continued, “but you were taking so long to get there even I was becoming anxious, and I knew what you were going to say. Connie, please forgive me if I was too blunt.”
“Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you were.”
“They’re dropping like flies,” Malcolm muttered. “David Manning is the only survivor of this sorry bunch.”
“There’s Hackworth, and we can’t forget that awful Detective Poole and Roger,” Connie remarked. “Speaking of Roger, I wonder how he’s doing. I wish I could go over there and find out.”
“I have a feeling Roger’s days are numbered,” Edward said gravely, “and as for Hackworth and Poole, they’ll both be joining a very rough group in prison. Anything could happen to them.”
“I get the feeling you think their death is inevitable,” Connie said, a shiver pricking her skin.
“Edward, forgive me for saying so, but you should never play poker,” Malcolm remarked, looking at Edward intently. “What haven’t you told us?”
“Yes, there is something,” Edward replied, a frown crossing his brow, “but you’ll find it... uh... rather silly.”
“Hold on! You didn’t mention anything else,” Frank exclaimed between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and potatoes.
“There’s nothing silly about any of this,” Malcolm said solemnly. “You need to tell us everything.”
“The secretary of the society, Thomas Salsbury, told me last night the Statue of Kharute carries a second curse.”
“A second curse?” Connie parroted. “Heavens.”
“It’s etched into the base of the statue. He could only give me the general meaning, but here it is. If you hold the statue and you have a dark, evil heart, it will curse you to a horrible death. If you hold the statue and you have a loving, pure heart, it will bless you with great happiness and a long, prosperous life.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Connie murmured breathlessly. “Malcolm, that’s why everything is working out for us and all those horrible people are dying.”
“Coincidence,” Malcolm said firmly. “It has to be. Inanimate objects cannot, and do not, carry magical powers!”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Edward recited solemnly, dramatically raising his eyebrows.
“Why they’re dying isn’t particularly important to me,” Frank interjected, taking a break from his feast, “at least, not at this stage. I’m more concerned about David Manning. He’s still on the loose, and he’s the man behind this whole shameful business. Tonight is our one chance to catch him. The fact that he’ll be there alone is a blessing. It certainly makes my job easier.”
“Frank, you’re absolutely right,” Malcolm agreed. “Curse or no curse, our focus must remain on capturing him. The moment he makes a bid, claims the statue, and hands over the money, you can arrest him and cart him away.”
“Exactly, then I can tie all the pieces together. Alive or dead, the roles each of the scoundrels played will be exposed for the world to see.”
“Wait until Kendrick hears all this news,” Connie said, rolling her eyes. “He’ll be shocked, but he’ll be relieved too.” Then pausing, she added, “Malcolm, I have an idea. Since David Manning will be the only one there, and the house will be swarming with policemen, perhaps Edith and I can come after all.”
“No,” Frank said firmly. “It’s far too dangerous. I know very little about Manning, and I cannot be distracted trying to protect two young ladies.”
“You heard him, Connie,” Malcolm said, fixing her with a steady gaze. “It’s out of the question. You and Edith will spend the evening together as we discussed.”
“I must thank you for an exceptionally good breakfast,” Frank said gratefully, laying down his knife and fork. “Since we’re all here, why don’t we go over the details. That will save me a trip back this afternoon.”
“Discussing everything now suits me too,” Edward agreed.
“I’m staying!” Connie said vehemently, staring at Malcolm. “I may not be able to be there tonight, but I’m going to hear all this.”
“Of course you are,” he replied. “You have every right.”
The footman was asked to leave, but Corbin remained in case he was needed, and the meeting began. Though Malcolm expected Connie to offer a few comments, she sat quietly through the conversation.
“I think that’s everything,” Frank decreed, rising to his feet. “I’ll meet you there around seven o’clock. My men will know you’ll be coming down the back path and over the wall.”
“Excuse me,” Connie said, lifting her hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Half out of his seat, Frank paused, then sat back down. “What about my uncle? He came to my house that night. He lied about me, and he was perfectly happy to see me sent away.”
“I haven’t forgotten him,” Frank assured her. “Once Manning is in custody, I’ll be rounding up everyone who played any part in giving false statements and interfering with the law.”
“Yes, I know you will, but he could have been involved in the robbery. Didn’t you say all of them were friends? Detective Poole, Roger, Lord Mountbatten, and him?”
“I say, she has a point,” Edward muttered. “He’s not a member of the Egyptian Historical Society, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a part of the theft. We can’t rule him out.”
“Frank, I must agree,” Malcolm said earnestly.
“I’m embarrassed. You’re right,” Frank grunted. “Of course he could be involved. We should have sent him an invitation.”
“I don’t know where he’s living now,” Connie said with a heavy sigh. “I wish I could give you an address.”
“I’m pleased to say I know exactly where he is,” Frank announced. “I’ve been tracking down the servants who used to work for your parents, and Stanford, your former butler, is now in service with him. Your uncle’s home is just down the block from the Mountbatten residence.”
“That’s where he lives? Good grief! I bet those two spent plenty of time together,” she said angrily, her brow furrowing. “Two rotten peas in a rotten pod.”
“Frank, give me the address. I’ll send an invitation right away,” Malcolm declared, jumping to his feet. “It’s last minute, but it’s possible he already knows. Mountbatten may have told him before he died.”
Pulling a small notebook and pen from his jacket, Frank scribbled down the information.
“That was good thinking, Connie,” he said, tearing off the paper and handing it to Malcolm. “If he’s not involved in the theft he won’t show up, but even if he isn’t, he’ll be brought in for questioning tomorrow. Mark my words, he’ll pay for trying to send you down the river. Now I really must get back to my office. Edward?”
“We can leave in my carriage as we came,” Edward replied. “I’ll be happy to drop you off.”
The group left the table, and after walking Frank and Edward to the door, Malcolm hurried to his study to write the invitation, while Connie headed upstairs, claiming she wanted to make a start on her shopping list.
But Connie had no plans to write any list.
She needed time alone to think.
Moving into the large master bedroom, she picked up her mother’s bracelet and walked to the chair that sat next to the window.
“Uncle Matthew was always so beastly to us,” she murmured, clutching the precious jewelry as she gazed out at the day. “Was it because he’d been born the second son? Is that why he tried to hurt me so badly?”
But as she recalled the things she’d overheard, how he had branded her hysterical, and how he was more than capable of the gruesome murder, a dark determination took hold. She simply had to know if he’d been involved in the theft of the Statue of Kharute.
“I have to be there. I have to see for myself if he shows up at the auction.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Matthew Clifford was immensely pleased with himself. He’d been about to enter one of his favorite bakeries, when a ragamuffin had approached him holding one of the shop’s elegant boxes.
“Half the price, my lord.”
Matthew had eyed him suspiciously.
“You stole that, didn’t you, boy?”
“No, my lord, I found it,” the lad had replied earnestly. “I did. Honest. A man left it on a seat.”
“Open it up. Let me see what’s in there.”
“Little cream cakes, my lord.”
As the boy lifted the lid, Matthew’s eyes fell on the half-a-dozen bite-sized Victorian sponges. A couple were slightly crushed, and one had fallen apart completely, but he’d barely noticed. Paying the lad, he tucked the box under his arm and hurried away.
Matthew had three passions.
Saving a penny.
Sweet things in any shape or form.
And pretty young men.
Striding home, looking forward to eating the delicious treats with a cup of Earl Grey tea, he trotted up the steps to his front door. His butler, Bardwell, walked hastily across the foyer to greet him.
“I hope you had a good walk, my lord.”
“Splendid, simply splendid.”
“May I take that box for you?”
“I wish to keep it with me, but bring a pot of Earl Grey to the drawing room at once.”
“Of course, sir,” Bardwell replied, taking Matthew’s coat and folding it over his arm. “A letter arrived for you while you were gone, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“Here you are, my lord,” he replied, picking up a small silver tray from a nearby table.
Lifting the fine linen envelope, Matthew studied the handwriting. It was unfamiliar, and there was no indication of the sender.
“I’ll take it with me,” he muttered, wanting to devour one of the sponges immediately. “Bring the tea.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Walking down the wide hall and into the lavish drawing room, Matthew placed the envelope and the box of cakes on the coffee table, sat on the couch, and removed the lid.
“Come to Daddy, you little beauty,” he mumbled, lifting out one of the sweet morsels.
Placing it in his mouth, he rolled his eyes in pleasure, then popped in a second. The cream had a fruity flavor, and he made a mental note to ask the baker about the ingredient so he could pass it along to his cook. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he picked up the envelope and ripped open the flap.
To Baron Clifford of Cloverdale.
Dear Sir,
You are cordially invited to a confidential auction this evening at eight p.m. The priceless item going to the highest bidder is the Statue of Kharute.
All invitees are being closely monitored. Any attempt to visit the auction site or contact the authorities will be dealt with immediately.
To enter the auction, you must bring this invitation and hand it to the guard at the door.
The location is the former home of your deceased brother, the house you have put on the market. We look forward to seeing you there.
Most sincerely,
Anonymous
His fingers trembling, Matthew Clifford read the invitation a second time.
It was impossible.
The Statue of Kharute was being auctioned that very night at the home he’d inherited and had been trying to sell. The same home in which his brother and sister-in-law had been murdered.
“I just can’t believe it,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “How could they be using the house without my knowledge? That blasted agent. He said he had the butler next door watching things—but—the statue—how is this possible? Is this what Monty wanted to tell me?”
A brief summons from Samuel had said the matter was one of urgency, but to Matthew’s regret, before he could swing by, Samuel had passed away.
But the notice of the auction wasn’t the only reason Matthew was unnerved.
For reasons unknown, his close friends were being dispatched into the afterlife with alarming speed.
There was Samuel’s heart attack, Roger’s mysterious illness, from which he now suffered so badly he had to be kept sedated, and Josephine had choked to death just the night before.
Then there was Hackworth and Detec
tive Poole.
Hackworth had disappeared while spying on Malcolm Mead, and Poole hadn’t been seen for days. Though Matthew had been trying to ignore his fears, he was deeply worried something dire was about to happen to him too.
He stared at the invitation.
“Where is that blasted tea?” he bellowed. “I need it to think! And cake. I need more than those tiny sponges!”
Tea gave him energy, and he did his best thinking while enjoying something rich and sweet. He began to pace, recalling the moment he’d held the magnificent salute in his hands. Monty had arranged a private viewing. Roger had been there too, of course. Wherever Monty happened to be, Roger was beside him. The three of them had marveled at the statue’s weight, its shimmering body, and its artistry.
Owning the priceless artifact would be stupendous.
Private collectors would pay a fortune for it.
“I have your tea, my lord,” Bardwell declared, walking in carrying a tray. “I apologize for the delay.”
“Bring me a large slice of chocolate cake,” Matthew ordered briskly, “and be quick about it.”
“Of course, my lord. Would you like me to plate the remaining sponges and discard the box?”
“No, just bring the cake.”
“Yes, my lord,” the butler replied, placing the tea service on the coffee table.
As he left the room, Matthew unfastened his trouser buttons at the waist. He’d have to go shopping again, but his ever broadening girth didn’t worry him in the least.
“Shall I attend this auction?” he grunted, pouring his tea and eating another sponge. “Better I have the statue than some fortune hunter! Perhaps I shall start a private collection of my own.” Pausing, he stared inside the bakery box. “Three left,” he muttered, staring at the two cakes that were crushed, and the one that had fallen apart. “Might as well finish the lot. Where was I? Oh, yes, my own private collection,” he continued, devouring the sponges as he considered the idea, then raising his eyes to the ceiling, he snarled, “Are you watching, brother dear? You and your perfect wife? Hah! Now even the Statue of Kharute will be mine.”
Rough Gentleman Page 36