All He Desires

by Anthea Lawson

  When was Viscount Keefe due to call again? Perhaps she would be lucky enough to see him today.

  Pen picked up the offending missive and scanned it, a frown between her eyebrows. “What does your ‘increased prospects’ mean?”

  “It means”—Caroline crossed her arms—“they expect me to find a husband very soon. By cutting the funding, I’m certain they are anticipating I will marry to save my projects, and trouble them no further.”

  “Is that…is that your only solution?” Her friend’s eyes were wide with concern.

  “Not the only one.” But there were not many—and it was by far the best solution for saving the school. She couldn’t voice the words.

  It was nearly impossible to imagine marrying anyone—especially after seeing Alex. After that one perfect kiss, those few glorious minutes when she had felt whole again and full of sheer, shimmering joy. That instant before everything had broken once more. She pressed her lips together.

  It was done. He was gone. She must move forward in her life.

  “I thought Viscount Keefe was going to help.” Pen frowned.

  “I’m sure he will. Of course he will. He’s just…delayed.”

  “He had better.”

  She had nothing to say to that. Pen’s words cut too close to her own anxious thoughts. “Well—back to work. I’m sure our tea has gotten cold by now.”

  They labored in silence for the next hour, although Caroline caught her friend giving her thoughtful looks. The rap on the door was a welcome distraction.

  “Miss Huntington?” the butler called.

  “Yes, Jenkins. Come in.” She set aside Maggie’s recent letter detailing the progress on Malta. At least that project was going well. She rested her fingers a moment on the top of the desk, touching wood.

  “You have a caller.” He extended the salver. “Viscount Keefe.”

  Her heart did not leap, but she felt a moment of profound relief. She shot Pen a glance. The girl’s brow creased; she seemed unconvinced.

  No matter. The viscount had come.

  “Please tell his lordship I will be down momentarily.” A minute or two to gather herself, to comb her hair—to don the earrings he had given her. One hand went to her earlobe. “And Jenkins…” She pressed her lips together. She could not face another meeting in the gold parlor. Not with Viscount Keefe—not with anyone. “I will receive him in the drawing room.”

  “Very good, miss.” The butler bowed and withdrew.

  “Pen, I’ll be back soon. And don’t worry.” Somehow everything would come out right. It must.

  The girl nodded, then dropped her gaze to the papers before her. “Good luck,” she finally said as Caroline was closing the door.

  Viscount Keefe turned with a smile when she stepped into the soothing blue and cream of the drawing room.

  “Miss Huntington.” He crossed to her and took her hand. “I did enjoy your ball the other night. Thank you for the honor of being your escort.”

  At least someone had enjoyed it. “I was glad to have you.”

  His gaze darted to her ears, then back to her face. “You honor me even more by wearing my gift.” His voice warmed further and he seemed to relax.

  Not that he had been particularly tense before, but she sensed she had pleased him.

  “A gift I’m proud to wear.”

  “Come, sit.” He drew her to the nearby settee, coaxing with gentle pressure on her hand until she settled beside him. “I would like to offer more, and I think you know as much. Miss Huntington. Caroline. I admire you a great deal.” His green eyes were sincere, his golden hair artfully disheveled.

  Her heart began to speed. It was what she had expected. But not so soon.

  She dropped her gaze to the floor. She could not agree to marry him today—not mere days after her own heart and body had betrayed her. She needed time. Time to repent, time to school her heart to love the viscount and him alone. Anything less would be unfair.

  “My lord, I must tell you, I received distressing news earlier.” Her throat tightened. “I received word this morning that the board is cutting the funding for the Twickenham School and—”

  “Oh, my poor dear.” His voice was warm, as was his embrace as he gathered her against him. “There now. It’s all right.” He patted her shoulder, a gesture of comfort, and she leaned into his strength.

  So different from being in Alex’s arms. So blessedly different. It was easy to let the tears come, here in his arms. Safe and sheltered from the anxiety she had been carrying, however brief the refuge might be.

  When she had collected herself, she looked up and gave Viscount Keefe a wavering smile. “Forgive me. It has been a trying few days.”

  “It’s quite all right.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek and gave her one of his most charming smiles. “I see you do not wish to speak of our future together quite yet. But dry your eyes. I have news that will take those tears away.”

  Caroline sat up straighter. Bless him for understanding. “Do you? What news?”

  “I have recently met someone who is interested in your work. The widow of a wealthy American industrialist, she has endowed a whole network of schools. She’s currently in London, and when she heard about your project she was interested in meeting with you. This could solve so many of your problems, my dear.” He gave her a significant look. “At least, until we can come to an understanding between us.”

  She could not help throwing her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “Thank you.” She had been wrong to doubt him, even for a moment.

  He moved back on the settee. A flicker of nervousness crossed his face. “She is, as I said, an American, and you know what a compressed sense of time they have. The thing is, she would like us to join her for luncheon. Tomorrow.” He drew an invitation from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Heavens. So immediate—but I cannot conceive of any reason not to go.” She scanned the invitation, heart growing lighter with every word. It was beyond providential. “Mrs. Baxter, is it? She would like to meet at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You say she has supported many schools?”

  “Yes.” He flashed that smile again. “Yes, indeed. I will be more than happy to escort you to meet with her. I’ve no doubt tomorrow will prove to be a turning point—in both our fortunes.”

  A figure entered the unoccupied town house, slipping like a shadow through the front door and closing it noiselessly behind him. He set a neatly folded handkerchief and a brown medicine bottle on the foyer table, then ghosted past furniture swathed in their dust covers. The place smelled of seclusion and the faint memory of expensive perfume. Although the light was fading, he would not risk a lamp. No need to alert the neighbors to his presence. There was enough illumination for his preparations.

  Down the hall, the last door on the right. It swung slowly open, revealing a room dominated by a massive four-poster bed. He pulled sturdy leather straps from his satchel and affixed them to the posts. A quick yank on each—yes, they would hold. Unnecessary perhaps, but it was better to take no chances, especially as his tool had proven so unreliable of late. There was too much at stake.

  He left by the side door, stepping out beneath the first stars of evening. As the latch snicked shut behind him, the figure gave a soundless laugh. It would be a luncheon Miss Caroline Huntington would not soon forget.

  Chapter 21

  Alex stared into the fire, a tumbler of brandy between his hands. He felt hollow, empty. The wet English chill refused to loosen its grip on him, even with his chair pulled close to the hearth and more liquor inside him than was left in the bottle. He could hardly believe the headlong rush to be at Caroline’s side had ended in this—sitting alone and hopeless in an anonymous room.

  Tomorrow he would leave England again. Forever. Although this time he would not be fleeing, nearly out of his head with grief and fever.

  The flames sank lower, and darkness brought the memories.

  He had been delirious by the ti
me he reached Southampton but still aware enough to buy himself passage on a ship. He did not care where he was bound as long as it was away. Away from England, away from what he had done. The injury to his leg, untended for days, was beginning to poison his body. It ought to have killed him, but the ship’s doctor saved his life. Alex remembered little of that journey, could not recall the man’s face through the haze of pain and medication.

  By the time he was able to stumble onto deck, once again in possession of his senses, they had reached the Mediterranean.

  Crete. It had risen on the horizon like a lost continent from the depths of the ancient sea, its soil soaked in myth and remorse. Flowers burned on the hillsides, and the shore and mountains seemed to offer a rough sanctuary.

  It had been his penance. His retreat. Until now.

  He dashed the contents of his glass into the embers and they roared up, feeding on the fumes. There was no peace for him now, not after she had made him live again.

  No peace on these shores for him, not after what he had done. What he would always be.

  A murderer.

  Nothing could change that. He had been a fool to imagine that having a child with Caroline would somehow absolve him of his past. There was no absolution. She would have married him, then cursed him for the rest of their bleak lives together. He could not condemn her—either of them—to that.

  Thank God there had been no baby. He had nothing to offer. Nothing to give. His lips twisted bitterly as he reached into his breast pocket, then unfolded the well-worn letter from Pen that had summoned him.

  Caroline is in trouble.

  His heart jolted as he read the familiar line written in the girl’s angular hand. There was no baby. Then what the devil could it mean?

  The events on Crete—Simms’s stray gunshot, rowing for their lives in the froth of the souroko. A shiver passed through him, a stirring of urgency blunted by the brandy in his blood. Pen—he had to talk to Pen. He tried to lever himself out of the chair, but the room began to rotate slowly around him.

  Tomorrow. He’d send the girl a note. They would meet, somewhere he would not run the risk of seeing Caroline. Tomorrow.

  He stared into the gathering shadows, a cold line of foreboding laid over his heart.

  The next day Alex found himself once again lifting the heavy brass knocker of Twickenham House.

  “Sir,” the butler gave him a cold look as he held the door open. “I believe you are expected. Miss Briggs has—”

  The girl burst into the foyer. “Alex!” She grabbed him by the arm. “Thank heavens you are here—you must go after her!”

  “Who? Pen, calm down and tell me what is going on.”

  She hauled him over to a sitting area with red velvet upholstered chairs, then paced back and forth, the words tumbling out of her, her hands turning around and around one another.

  “A messenger came for Caro a half hour ago—after she had already left for her luncheon appointment—and said it was urgent. I thought…her brother’s wife, the baby…At any rate I knew where she had gone and I told him, even though it was irregular. I shouldn’t have, I see that now, but…”

  “Pen.” He caught her by the shoulders, stilling her. “Don’t try to explain, just answer me. Caroline is in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  He forced himself to breathe and listen, to keep her panic from infecting him. “And you know where she has gone—you can tell me how to get there?”

  The girl nodded, her eyes fixed on his face as though he were the one solid thing in the room. “Kensington. Barberry Lane. I wrote it down. I’m her secretary now, so I keep notes on these things, and I’m so afraid—if Mr. Simms catches her this time—”

  Fear began to beat through him, uncontrolled and rising. “Simms? Did you say Mr. Simms? He’s here, in London? Why didn’t you tell me?” God, the days he had wasted in self-pity when that madman was here. His jaw tightened.

  “I was in such a hurry when I sent that letter to you. The ship was leaving for the Mediterranean and I only had time to write a quick note and send the messenger racing down. And”—she dropped her gaze—“no one believed me about seeing Mr. Simms. I was afraid you wouldn’t either, if I told you.”

  “It’s all right, Pen. You did the best you could. Now call one of the servants and have them fetch my horse. I’ll go after her. Meanwhile, explain as much as you can.”

  A maid was summoned and dispatched to the stables, and Alex turned to Pen. “Why do you think Simms is after her?”

  “The day I wrote you, she was deliberately run down in the street by a cab—a cab with yellow-spoked wheels. And who was in it but Mr. Simms!”

  Alex clenched his hands. “The same Mr. Simms from Crete? You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.” Her eyes were wide. “I know it was. Caroline didn’t see him, and Viscount Keefe made light of it. But I know who I saw.”

  “Has there been anything since then—any other attempts?”

  She lowered her voice. “The same cab, the yellow-wheeled one, follows Caroline when she goes out. I know it sounds far-fetched. Caro won’t believe me. She thinks I’m being fanciful and am not accustomed to city life.”

  “And she went out today—with whom?”

  “Viscount Keefe. They took his curricle.” Pen’s voice was unhappy.

  “Useless.” He was coming to hate Keefe more every minute. “And a messenger came after she left, and…”

  “And after I told him where she had gone, I went out on the step. Then I saw the same messenger go up to a cab. That cab. The one with the yellow wheels, and right away the driver whipped up the horses and they were gone. He’s after her. I can’t help feeling she’s in terrible danger.”

  Alex felt it, too, a tightness that gripped his limbs, an urgency that had him pacing as restlessly as Pen. He whirled in relief when the butler pulled the door open. “Here’s the groom with my horse. Don’t worry, Pen. I’ll find her.”

  “I know.” The words were barely a whisper as she followed him to the threshold.

  “Here we are.” Viscount Keefe pulled the curricle up outside a respectable-looking town house. “Mrs. Baxter awaits.” He jumped down and handed the reins to the footman who had traveled with them, then helped Caroline down from the seat.

  She resisted the urge to smooth back her hair. No need to be anxious—or not much, at any rate. Although…Americans were different, and there was so very much at stake. Perhaps a little nervousness could be forgiven.

  The viscount held out his arm for her. He looked a trifle ill at ease himself, though he gave her his usual charming smile as he led her up the steps. He rapped on the door. There was no answer.

  “Did we get the day wrong?” Caroline fished the invitation from her reticule and frowned as she scanned it. “No, we are here at the proper time, and place. This is 14 Barberry Lane.”

  “Well, Americans are not always predictable when it comes to protocol. Maybe we should just peek inside.” The viscount set his hand to the knob. There was a slight tremor in his fingers. “Ah, it’s open.” He waved her forward.

  “Are you sure?” Caroline hesitated on the threshold. “I don’t think it’s quite the thing. Perhaps Mrs. Baxter is expecting us to be late?”

  “We can wait in the hall for her butler if that is the case.” He set his hand between her shoulders and gave her a gentle push forward.

  “My, it’s rather dim in here. Our hostess must be a bit of an eccentric.” Caroline kept her voice low and peered into the nearby drawing room. “Why look, the furniture is still swathed in dust covers.” Unease shivered along her spine, like a spider dropped down her collar. She turned to her escort, who was fumbling with something by the front door. “My lord, I do not think we are expected. There has been some mistake.”

  “So sorry, my dear.” He strode up to her, grabbing the back of her head and bringing a kerchief up to her face. Her unease roared into full panic, flaring like a suddenly overturned lamp in a pool of oil. A noxio
us odor wafted from the kerchief, and she tried to twist away, but the viscount had a firm hold on her.

  What was he doing? Why? There was only time to take one quick breath before her nose was buried in the acrid linen. Caroline fought not to breathe in the fumes, but sudden darkness swathed her senses, the fire of her fear abruptly doused.

  Caroline returned to herself in bits, enough presence of mind remaining to feign continued unconsciousness. She was lying on her back, her hands tingling. She cautiously flexed them and found she was bound, arms pulled to either side. Where was she? What had happened? Disbelief and confusion mingled on her tongue with the bitter taste of whatever it was she had breathed. Her eyelids felt like shillings had been stacked on them, they were so hard to open. It was easy to keep her gaze to a mere slit.

  A bedroom. A gas lamp, the thick red shade keeping the room more in shadows than light. Movement in the corner of her vision. She slowly turned her head. Viscount Keefe! She almost called his name in relief, before she recalled he was the one who had brought her here.

  He was bent over a small table, his hands busy with odd implements. A shiver of fear breathed over her. Dear lord, what kind of trap had she fallen into? The viscount struck a match, the stink of phosphorus burning her nose, then lit a miniature lamp crowned with cut glass. It seemed made for some express purpose, but what that might be she did not know.

  Slowly, Viscount Keefe drew a long metal instrument from beneath his coat. She let out a gasp of fear and his head jerked up.

  “Awake, I see.” He smiled at her—there was nothing leering or sinister about his expression, just his usual disarming smile. “I am very sorry for this circumstance, Miss Huntington—or perhaps I should call you Caroline, since we are soon to be very intimate.”

  She pulled against the bonds that cut into her wrists. “Why? Why are you doing this?” She worked her left wrist back and forth, trying to keep him distracted with talking.

  He gave an apologetic shrug. “Our courtship was proceeding too slowly. It was necessary to speed up matters. While I’ve no doubt you would have agreed to become my wife in due time, the arrival of that Trentham fellow has muddied the waters.”