The Viscount's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

  “Perhaps a letter from James St. Claire pointing that out and threatening him with a criminal prosecution for his attack and the confinement of Miss Springley will be enough to keep Sturmpole from pursuing the matter further.”

  “What if that doesn’t work?” Bromwell asked. “What if Sturmpole wants her arrested?”

  “If neither Jamie nor I can make him see why he should let the matter drop,” Drury said, “he’ll still have to find her. In the meantime, I’ll have my men see what else they can find out about Sturmpole. He’s likely the sort who delights in preying upon his servants, and if so, he will have done so before. And he should be in jail.”

  “As much as I find capital punishment barbaric, I believe that is one man I’d like to see hanged,” Bromwell muttered as he got to his feet and stared, unseeing, out the window.

  What he did not say, but felt, was that he might even have been able to put the noose around the scoundrel’s neck himself. Never in his life had he been more enraged than when Miss Springley had told him what had happened to her.

  And if the man had succeeded in his disgusting assault, the bite of a Phoneutria nigriventer would have been too easy a death for him.

  “If Miss Springley goes with you when you sail, that will give me more time to find evidence against him,” Drury remarked.

  Bromwell started as if he’d been hit by a blow dart, then wheeled around to face his friend. “That is quite impossible.”

  Although the rest of him remained motionless, Drury’s expression flickered with surprise for the briefest of moments. “Why?”

  “First, because my voyage is a scientific expedition, not a pleasure cruise,” Bromwell retorted as he approached the massive desk. “Second, the accommodations aboard ship are primitive at best. Third, it would be most improper. No unmarried woman would dare risk her reputation in such a manner—nor should she.”

  “Forgive me for leaping to conclusions,” Drury said, his eyes, like the rest of his face, inscrutable. “I was under the impression that you cared a great deal for her. Or do you intend to make her wait for your return for the wedding to take place?”

  Bromwell stared at his friend as if he’d said the world was flat and he could prove it. His agitation as great as it had ever been in his parents’ presence, he splayed his hands on Drury’s desk and spoke firmly and decisively. “Gad, Drury, now that you’ve fallen in love and married, do you think everybody else is teetering on the brink? I have no intention of proposing marriage to Miss Springley—or anyone—before I sail. I would never ask a woman to wait for me, not even with the hope of marriage at my return.”

  Not even if it broke her heart. Better that than be the death of her.

  He pushed himself away from the desk and walked to the window, trying to regain his self-control before he faced his friend again. “How many times must I say I won’t marry before I sail and I won’t ask a woman to wait for me before people believe me? Why can’t anyone understand that it could be years before I return and there’s always a chance I never will? It wouldn’t be kind or fair to ask a woman to wait for me.”

  Drury leaned back in his chair, calmly regarding his indignant, dismayed friend. “You know, Buggy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so upset.”

  “Because despite my excellent reasons for not marrying or proposing before I sail, everybody seems to think I should marry Miss Springley, preferably the sooner the better!”

  “Everybody?”

  “My parents are very keen—but then,” he noted, “they don’t know who she really is.”

  His father would surely rescind his offer if he did, and their newfound rapprochement would likely be destroyed, as well.

  “So tell them.”

  Bromwell made no effort to hide his disdain for that ludicrous notion. “I can easily imagine my father’s response. It would not be favorable.”

  “You’ve never let his disapproval dissuade you before.”

  “This is different.”

  “How?”

  Bromwell realized he had no choice. As distressing as it was, he would have to tell Drury.

  He slumped into the chair. “Because Miss Springley has already given me to understand that she would not be amenable to marriage to me.”

  Drury again raised an inquiring brow. “Is that all?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  For centuries, the spider has been the subject of fear and misunderstanding. Even one of their earliest admirers, the Reverend Topsel, in his History of Four-footed Beasts and Serpents, considered them born of some sort of seeds arising from filth and decay, simply because they may be found in even the newest of houses, apparently neglecting to take into account that there will be a lapse of time between the framing of a structure and the final white-washing of walls.

  —from The Spider’s Web, by Lord Bromwell

  “All?” Bromwell repeated, dumbfounded. “Is that not enough? If she doesn’t want to marry me, there’s the end of it.”

  “For a man who can be stubbornly determined,” Drury calmly replied, “I’m surprised you’re giving up so easily. You didn’t give up planning your first expedition when your father refused to fund it, did you? Or when the next five wealthy men laughed in your face? Yet you’re willing to reject—”

  “You aren’t listening,” Bromwell interrupted as he got to his feet again. “She doesn’t want me.”

  Drury gave him a remarkably sympathetic smile. “I fear we men are not always the best interpreters of the feelings of women. You may recall my own road to domestic bliss was hardly a smooth one.”

  Yes, Bromwell did know that.

  How easy it had seemed to solve all his friends’ troubles when he’d been a dispassionate observer of their romantic dilemmas: Edmond and Diana Westover were two of a kind and had only to be made to see it; Brix had loved Fanny for years and only had to fear losing her to realize it; Drury had been attracted to Juliette from the day she saved his life with a basket of potatoes, even if he’d tried to deny it because she was French.

  Now Bromwell knew better. When it came to affairs of the heart, things were not necessarily simple.

  “Whatever I feel for Miss Springley,” he said, “and I do not call it love, my road does not include marriage before I sail. I would never ask a woman to marry me, then wait patiently ashore for years, like Penelope pining for Odysseus, just as I’d never expect a woman to wait for me to return and then marry. It wouldn’t be fair to her. And Miss Springley agrees with me.”

  “So you have discussed marriage with her?”

  “I had to,” he admitted. “My parents left me little choice. My father made her a most outrageous offer dependent upon marrying me. She refused, but it meant I found out how she felt.

  “Besides, you know what this voyage means to me,” he continued wearily. “How I’ve worked and planned and sought the necessary funds. I can’t give it up now.”

  That, too, sounded simple—and it had been, until he’d met Nell Springley.

  “I suppose not,” Drury agreed, “especially now that Charlie will be able to captain your vessel. I had a letter from him today. He wrote to you at Granshire Hall, I expect, to tell you the news. He’s resigned his commission and hopes to sail with you, whether as captain, or your assistant, or a bosun’s mate or even a cabin boy.”

  Bromwell’s dismay momentarily fled in the face of this good and welcome news. “That’s marvelous! I was wondering whom I could get to captain the ship and now I have the perfect man! If only I could get the rest of the money as easily!”

  “Your father still won’t help?”

  Bromwell flushed. “Miss Springley wasn’t the only one he tried to bribe into marriage. He offered to fund the whole expedition if I married her before I sailed—although I’m sure he’d feel quite differently if he knew the truth about her. But there are others I can still solicit. However, that can wait for a little while. I’d rather consult with Jamie St. Claire immediately.”

  “Very well,” Dru
ry said as he rose and strode to the door. “We’ll both go to his office, and then we can visit some other associates who inhabit the areas around Fleet Street. They can find out everything we need to know about the lascivious Lord Sturmpole.”

  “Good God, is that you, Titus?” the Earl of Granshire bellowed across the Pump Room in Bath.

  Several people in the large room illuminated by tall windows turned. Curious whispers began as the nobleman headed toward the water dispenser and the tall, beefy, well-dressed, weak-chinned fellow leaning against the bar. The man addressed thus smiled, put down the cup of supposedly curative water, and straightened as the earl reached him and vigorously shook his hand.

  “Titus, you old stick, why didn’t you write and tell me you were coming to Bath?” the earl demanded. “It’s been…what? Ten years since you last set foot here? How is your wife? Has she come to take the waters, too?”

  “Alas, my wife is still too unwell to leave Staynesborough,” Lord Sturmpole replied, straightening his waistcoat that was a rather bilious green.

  “What brings you to Bath, then? You look healthy as a horse.”

  “A little matter of business,” Sturmpole replied. “How is your charming wife? And your illustrious son? I congratulate you on his great success.”

  “Thank you,” the earl replied. “The boy’s done very well for himself, although I don’t deny I would have preferred he chose another field in which to distinguish himself. But long gone are the days children heeded their parents, eh?”

  “Indeed,” Sturmpole agreed. “I fear too many young people today don’t respect their elders, or their betters.”

  “Or do their duty,” Lord Granshire charged. “In our day, a nobleman’s son took his duties seriously. Married, had an heir, looked after the estate, respected his parents. Now they either indulge in gaming or wenching, or wander around the world discovering things nobody else much cares about.”

  As Lord Sturmpole chuckled and nodded his agreement, the earl seemed to mentally shake himself. “Of course, my son has our unqualified support, and his book was a great success, as is he. We’re very proud of him, very proud. How long are you in Bath, Titus? My hunt ball is in a fortnight, and you would be welcome to attend.”

  “I had intended to stay in Bath for several days, so I would be delighted, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Oh, no trouble at all! Where are you staying?”

  “The Fox and Hound.”

  “Ah, yes, the good old Fox and Hound. Remember that maid—what was her name? With the large breasts?”

  “Bessie.”

  “Ah, yes. Dead now, I think.”

  “In some sort of accident, I believe,” Sturmpole concurred.

  The earl slid his companion a sly smile. “Very friendly girl, poor Bessie was.”

  “For the right price. I gather your son has had a few adventures of that sort on his travels.”

  The earl flushed and looked around to see if anybody was listening, although whether he wanted them to be or not was open to conjecture. “Apparently. You’ve heard about his tattoo? It’s a badge of prowess, although he doesn’t say so.”

  “It’s no wonder, perhaps, that he’s not yet married,” Lord Sturmpole replied.

  “He’s not married because he insists on going on another expedition first. But I’m not without hope,” the earl added with a wink.

  “Oh? Is there a young lady who’s caught his eye?”

  “Come to the ball and see for yourself. It only remains for me to get my son to see sense and propose. After all, he’s had one expedition—what does he need another for, especially when he’s got a pretty young lady from a most illustrious family who seems amenable to marriage just waiting for him to ask? I won’t live forever and I need an heir, by God!”

  The earl lowered his voice after several people had turned to look at them, albeit with the well-mannered pretence that they were not. “I’m sure Lady Eleanor will get him up to the post better than a father could.”

  “Lady Eleanor?”

  The earl lowered his voice even more. “Springford. Remember her father, the Duke of Wymerton? Horrid bore even at ten and with a harelip, too, but his wife must be a beauty, for his daughter’s quite lovely—which only goes to show how stubborn my son can be. He gets that from his mother. He met Lady Eleanor in a mail coach, of all places. Thank God it overturned, or he probably wouldn’t even have introduced himself.

  “I agree it’s shocking they were in a mail coach,” he said when he saw Lord Sturmpole’s startled expression. “My son has some plebeian notions and she…Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say any more about her family situation until matters are settled between them, but you remember her father? The fellow always was a dictator, telling us all what to do and making up ridiculous rules when he was prefect.”

  “Will Lady Eleanor be at your ball?”

  “Yes. She’s staying at Granshire Hall.”

  Lord Sturmpole drew his lips back in what was supposed to be a smile. “Excellent! I should very much like to meet her and hear how her father is these days.”

  Bromwell trotted up the steps to his father’s town house. A few hours ago, he had read his paper about the Phoneutria nigriventer to the gentlemen of the Linnean Society. As always, they had listened with interest, and yet he had felt no excitement or pleasure in detailing the attributes of that dangerous arachnid. He hadn’t experienced the usual delight, that spark of fascination, that desire to explain and illuminate.

  It was as if he’d been waiting for Christmas, only to discover it had been indefinitely postponed.

  He could guess why.

  Despite Drury’s offer of assistance and his belief that Miss Springley’s difficulties with Lord Sturmpole could be resolved without too much trouble, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Memories of their time together, her face, her kiss, the feel of her in his arms, lingered on the edges of his mind when he was awake, and more than lingered when he was asleep.

  During the last week, he’d had the same recurring dream, of Miss Springley dancing the hura, the sensual, erotic dance exclusive to the women of Tahiti, her hips swinging, her arms moving in graceful, wavelike motions, her breasts full and round and perfect above a flat stomach, her legs long and lithe.

  And she’d been naked, save for a bridal veil and pantelettes.

  He’d been thinking time and distance would make such thoughts and dreams recede. Unfortunately, he was forced to conclude that the old adage about distance making the heart grow fonder had some basis in fact.

  “Thank you, Millstone,” he said as the butler opened the door for him.

  “You have a visitor, my lord, awaiting your return in the drawing room,” the butler gravely replied as Bromwell handed him his hat, which was very like the one he’d been wearing in the mail coach that had wound up squashed flat beneath him, killing the spider. How surprised Miss Springley had looked when he told her where he’d put it! As if he’d announced he’d eaten it.

  He brought his attention back to Millstone and the unexpected visitor. Perhaps it was someone he’d asked to sponsor the expedition, come in person to reply, and if so, that was a hopeful sign. “Who is it?”

  Before Millstone answered, Drury appeared on the threshold.

  One look, and Bromwell’s heart beat faster, and not with joy. They were supposed to meet with Jamie St. Claire tomorrow. This early advent, and Drury’s grim visage, probably didn’t herald good news.

  Drury, however, was his usual composed self as he addressed the butler. “Millstone, please tell the cook I’ll be staying for dinner, if his lordship doesn’t mind.”

  Bromwell was too anxious to find out why Drury was there to do more than nod his acquiescence before he grabbed Drury’s arm and pulled him into the drawing room.

  “There’s no need to panic,” Drury said before closing the door of the well-appointed room.

  Lord Granshire rarely came there, but the earl was not one to live in anything less than the sty
le and luxury his wealth afforded.

  “I’m not panicking,” Bromwell replied, although if he wasn’t, he was very close to it. “What’s happened? Miss Springley…?”

  “Is safe in Granshire Hall, as far as I know.”

  Bromwell’s relief was intense, but short-lived, as he frowned. “Juliette’s not…?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Is it Charlie, then, or Brix or Edmond?”

  “No, all our friends and their families are fine,” Drury assured him. “It’s just that there have been some…developments. Tell me, Buggy, how much do you know about Miss Springley’s family?”

  Bromwell’s brows drew together at the unexpected query. “As far as I know, she has none, or she would have sought their help,” he replied. “She never spoke of brothers or sisters, her parents are dead and—”

  “I think you’d better sit down, Buggy.”

  Bromwell was too taken aback by his friend’s suggestion to heed it. “What? She has family after all?”

  “Yes,” Drury confirmed, growing grimmer. “Sit down, Buggy.”

  This time, the viscount obeyed, being too stunned to disobey. “Where are they?”

  “Her mother is dead, just as Miss Springley said. She died of gaol fever in Newgate while awaiting trial. Her father was convicted on a charge of theft and sent to Botany Bay. Records show he was alive when the ship landed, and as far as I can ascertain, he’s still there, serving out his sentence.”

  Bromwell felt curiously light-headed, as if he was again trying to drive the mail coach, only it was going much too fast. “She said they were dead. She didn’t tell me they’d been arrested and charged with a crime.”

  More lies, in addition to the ones she’d already told him.

  “Unfortunately, the evidence is incontrovertible, and if Sturmpole finds out about her family history, it will make his case stronger and ours weaker, provided things happened the way Miss Springley said.”