The Westerfield Trilogy

by Renee Rose

  Hunt nodded, as if he had already arrived at some conclusion. “Plans. For the ships.”

  “Please open it and tell me if anything is missing.”

  Hunt sat at the desk chair and rifled through the contents of the drawer. “The file marked Government Plans is missing, but they did not contain the warship plans. Those I keep elsewhere.”

  “Which plans are in the missing folder?”

  He shook his head. “They are nothing—inconsequential notes and very early drawings, communication letters between myself and the Navy commander, nothing of any real value.”

  “Thank you, sir. Will you please ask your most trusted servants, perhaps your housekeeper and butler, to survey the house for any other missing items?”

  Hunt nodded and departed.

  He joined his other men, who were still interrogating the servants about everything they knew of Charlotte, or anything unusual they had noticed that day. They learned very little from the interviews. No one had seen Charlotte enter the house, nor did anyone have any stories to share from the brief time she resided there. It seemed the girl kept to herself.

  The clock struck midnight before they finished and he sought out Hunt, finding the entire family in the library.

  “We are all finished here, sir. My men have removed the body, and your servants may begin cleaning the room now.” He glanced at Eliza, sympathetic for any nightmares she might have after what she had seen. What would have happened had she startled the intruders? His heart constricted with the thought of danger befalling her.

  “I will remain here at the house until I am certain its inhabitants will remain safe,” he declared. “Considering the killer took the wrong papers, there is a chance he will return to look for the plans he sought.”

  “Is that normal procedure?” Hunt asked drily.

  “It is justifiable,” he replied.

  “I would feel better with you on the premises,” Mrs. Hunt cut in, before her husband could answer. She stood and walked toward him. “I appreciate your care for our safety.”

  “As do I,” Eliza said, also standing, and dipping into a lovely curtsy.

  He bowed.

  Mrs. Hunt looked for her husband’s acquiescence, despite having made her opinion known.

  “Very well,” Hunt agreed. “I will have a room prepared for you.”

  “I do not require a room. I do not intend to sleep.”

  “I see. Well, if you use this opportunity to—”

  “Mr. Hunt,” Mrs. Hunt interrupted primly. “I am certain Lord Darlington’s intentions are honorable.”

  “It is not Lord Darlington yet,” Hunt grumbled.

  * * *

  As shocking as it had been, she crawled into bed feeling safe. Andrew would protect her, tonight and always. The strapping he had given her seemed days, rather than only hours ago, and she experienced an odd disappointment to find only a few marks and little residual soreness to remember it.

  She needed him. She knew it with every fiber of her being. He gave her solid footing in a world in which she had never belonged. With him, she bore no blemish, lacked no grace. With him, she felt desirable, pretty, entertaining, clever. And he would correct her when she strayed emotionally from the cocoon of bliss he created for her.

  A shiver ran through her, remembering his punishment. She felt split open afterward—so revealed to him, so vulnerable. And yet, so completely claimed, the exposure gave her no insecurity.

  She fell asleep imagining all the things he would do to her in their bedroom.

  In the morning, Andrew had communications with Billings Street, reports back and forth, but to her delight, he refused to leave their house. He questioned everyone again, spending time with her father to go over Charlotte’s references and employment details once again.

  “Well, Darlington, do you deem us safe yet?” her father asked him at dinner time.

  Andrew looked tired, the lines of his face appearing deeper. “No, sir. You, Miss Hunt, and this house are the best connections we have to the murderer. Though logic may not support it, my gut tells me he or she will return. I intend to be here when that happens.”

  “I hope you will join us for dinner, then,” her father said gruffly, surprising everyone.

  “Thank you, if it is not an inconvenience.”

  They sat down together, her mother next to Andrew, where she wished to be.

  “So, Lord Darlington, do you plan to stay up all night again, tonight?”

  “Eliza!” her mother censured.

  “No, I do not mean to be indelicate. I am just concerned with his health and efficacy after staying up so long without sleep.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hunt,” Andrew said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, “but I do not require so very much sleep.”

  His gaze warmed her and his easy manner, even in the presence of her father, calmed her nerves. Andrew soothed her anxieties and steadied her as no one before ever had.

  “About how many ships do you produce in a year?” he asked her father, cleverly engaging him in his favorite topic. He proved he could handle her parents as deftly as he handled her, charming her mother and continuing to pepper her father with astute questions about his business.

  After supper, her mother shocked her by suggesting, “Perhaps you could play a bit of chess with Lord Darlington in the library to occupy him before you retire.”

  She expected her father to protest, but he said nothing and she hid her delight, looking to Andrew. “Do you play?”

  “I would love to,” he said with the usual conspiratorial glint in his eye.

  She led him to the library, half expecting her parents to follow, but they did not. Andrew left the door to the library wide open, but settled across the little table where she set up the game with the smile of a cat who has caught a bird.

  “Alone again,” he breathed.

  “I know. Yesterday seems so long ago.”

  He gazed at her with fondness as if her face—her face—was quite fascinating to him. Her cheeks grew warm under his study and she looked up at him through her lashes.

  “I cannot wait until you are mine, Eliza,” he murmured.

  She knocked one of the pieces over and righted it. “Black or white?”

  “Black.”

  She turned the board around so the black pieces were on his side and they commenced their game. “My lord?” she asked after a time, drawing up her courage.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you… well… What you did with me?” She felt her neck heat. “What I mean to say…”

  “Just say it,” he commanded.

  And, just as her body obeyed his command to breathe that first night, she spoke the words. “Have you done it before? With other women?”

  He looked solemn. “No, Eliza, only you.”

  “Why me? I mean, I am not undervaluing myself again…”

  “No, I know you are not,” he said, his brow creased with concern. “Do you feel… are you afraid of it? Of me?”

  “No,” she answered immediately.

  He looked relieved. Picking up his rook, he rolled it between two fingers, gazing at it, rather than her face. “I always liked the idea of punishing a woman, which frightened me—horribly—because I feared it meant I was a monster like my father. But,” he swallowed, “with you—it just happened that first time, but when I saw you were aroused by it, I understood something new. You might be the matched half to me.” He picked up her rook and held it against his. “The white to my black.”

  He met her eye, and only the vulnerability in his face kept her from dropping her gaze, blushing. Part of her did not want to admit she enjoyed his punishment. It hurt, after all. But she enjoyed the memory of it now. In fact, she savored each spanking he had given her as most special events.

  Still, she could not tell him she liked it, could not give him that power or permission for fear he would take it further than she wished it to go.

  He put the pieces down and made his play. “Aft
er what happened in the gatehouse, I understood my urges better. That they come out of passion—out of desire and love—but not out of anger or drunken madness, like my father’s.” He peered at her closely. “Did you feel that?”

  “Yes,” she managed. “Yes.” She kept her eyes on the board.

  “I feel certain you have more to say on the matter,” he coaxed.

  “Not just yet,” she said.

  The teasing look she had expected from the start appeared on his face. “When we are married, I will spank your thoughts right out of you when you cannot speak them.”

  She blushed, a warm tingle running through her entire body at the threat. The idea of laying over his lap having her bottom warmed whilst he forced her to confess her innermost thoughts sounded like a sweet medicine.

  They played their game to conclusion, and she won, though she suspected he had allowed it.

  “I will say goodnight to you, then,” he said, standing and giving a bow.

  She offered her gloved hand, which he took, bending over and kissing it before he flipped it and found the bare skin of her wrist. Brushing her pulse with his lips, he sent a shiver of anticipation through her body, but he released her hand with a smile. “Good night, dear Eliza.”

  Warmth filled her chest. “Good night.”

  As she approached her parents in her father’s study, she overheard them talking.

  “He loves her, Thomas. Did you see the way he looks at her?”

  “Yes, I saw,” her father said. His tone crackled with dryness, but she thought, or perhaps hoped, she heard resignation, as well.

  * * *

  He spent the night in the study with the door shut, on a hunch. He roused from dozing in the middle of the night by a prickling of the hairs on his arms. He listened, but heard nothing. Then, the handle to the door moved, ever so slowly. Quiet as a cat, he leaped to his feet, standing behind the door. It eased open as gradually as the handle had turned, revealing the shape of a large, stocky man. He pounced from behind the door, capturing the man in a choke hold, his forearm pressed against the larger man’s windpipe.

  The intruder answered with his own silent attack, backing forcefully against the wall, slamming him repeatedly on the wooden structure, cracking the boards with the impact. He held fast, but his opponent gripped his smallest finger, tearing it away from the others and snapping the bone. He slackened his hold for an instant and the intruder slipped free, turning to bash his huge head in the direction of his nose. He dodged the blow, ducking and plowing into the man’s center, knocking him backward, onto the floor. They tussled in silence, rolling over one another as lanterns and staff appeared to investigate their noise.

  One of the servants screamed a blood-curdling scream.

  “It is all right. I have everything under control,” he said soothingly as he swung his fist into the intruder’s cheekbone. He managed to get two more punches in before the larger man clapped both his ears with open palms, disorienting him long enough to throw him down on his back and land a fist on his jaw. He rolled out from under the man and scrambled to his feet, landing a kick in the man’s gut before tackling him once again.

  “Andrew!”

  The sound of Eliza’s voice distracted him enough to cause him to lose his advantage, his opponent throwing him backward and starting toward the door, where Eliza stood agape.

  “Eliza, get out and shut the door!” he ordered, leaping to catch the man around the waist and topple them both to the floor.

  Eliza stood frozen, unmoving. “Eliza, do it, now!”

  “Do not move!” Hunt boomed, shoving Eliza behind him. “I have a rifle.”

  “Do not shoot!” he barked at the older man. “I want him alive.”

  Hunt trained the gun on them both while they continued to fight, wrestling and punching. He slammed the man against the bookcase, knocking a shelf down from the wall onto both their heads. His opponent snatched up the shelf and whirled, bringing it crashing down on the top of his head. His vision went black and stars danced before his eyes, but he moved blindly, throwing his full weight against the intruder again to knock them both down. This time they struck the side of the desk, the furniture bashing his ribs at a bruising force.

  “Just let me shoot him,” Hunt growled, wisely keeping all others from stepping into the room and tangling in the dangerous fight.

  “No!” He swung his leg under the other man’s feet and brought him toppling to his back. Leaping on top of him, he rolled him to his belly and pinned his arms behind him in a hold capable of breaking his arm. “Get me some rope!” he gritted.

  Grasping the man’s hair, he lifted his face from the floor. “Who arranged the sale of documents?”

  “Go to hell!” the man bit out through bloody lips.

  “Here, sir!” One of the servants ran forward and handed him some rope. He took it, winding it around his prisoner’s wrists.

  “Send for help from Billings Street,” he commanded.

  When no one moved, Hunt repeated the order, naming the servants he wanted to complete the task.

  He secured the knot in the rope and looked down at his prisoner. “The sooner you talk, the easier it will go for you,” he advised.

  The man said nothing, but relaxed his resistance. Andrew rolled him to his side to look at his face. The intruder’s ankles shot out and wrapped around his legs, yanking him off-balance at the same time his prisoner struggled to his feet, hands still tied behind his back. The deafening sound of rifle fire exploded and his best source of information about the treasonous transaction toppled dead at his feet.

  He shook his head, disgusted. Wiping blood from his mouth, he snarled, “I said I wanted him alive.”

  “He planned on fighting to the death. I think he knew what you had in mind for him if he went alive,” Hunt observed.

  He muttered a curse, then raised his voice to address the hallway choked with household members. “Does anyone recognize this man? Have you seen him before?”

  One by one, they filed in, peering at the gruesome sight. When Eliza tried to come in, he stretched his arm, pointing emphatically toward the door. “Out.”

  She stopped, her eyes huge, her expression wounded.

  He softened, taking a few steps toward her. “Forgive me for being curt. I do not wish you to see this.”

  “But what if I can identify him?”

  He removed his jacket and tossed it over the bleeding man’s chest, covering the wound. “All right. Look now.”

  She stepped forward, a brave, resolute expression on her face, swallowed and shook her head. “I have not seen him before.”

  “Come on, dear,” her mother said, pulling her out of the room.

  Smith and Jenners arrived, helping him to transport the body to a wagon as he explained what happened.

  “Well, the major players are dead. We are only missing the middle man,” Jenners said, by way of consolation.

  “How do you know there is a middle man?” Smith asked.

  “There must have been. Charlotte would not have contacted her employer to sell him the plans she stole from him. A broker must have been employed to find a seller. It is a pity for them they did not provide each other with enough information to avoid such a mistake. It is rather comedic when you consider.”

  Jenners leaned his forearms on the wagon. “Broke your little finger, eh?”

  He shrugged. “It will heal.”

  “Are you leaving us, then?”

  He straightened. “What makes you say that?”

  Jenners lifted his chin in the direction of the house. “Anyone can see you are mad about the lady. It is about time you settled down.”

  “I have not yet won her father’s approval,” he said with a wry grin.

  “You might have just lost it, for good,” Smith offered.

  He gave him a withering look. “I appreciate your optimism, Smith.”

  “Aw, he is just grumpy because he knows I will get to play gentleman when you leave, and he will have
to be my valet,” Jenners asserted.

  * * *

  She woke mid-morning, feeling as groggy as she had when she fell asleep at dawn. She ought to be horrified at what she had seen that night in the study. Except she felt nothing of the kind—only a perverse pride that her man, Lord Darlington, had tussled so spectacularly.

  What sort of civilized lady relishes seeing a man in fisticuffs?

  She shivered, thinking of the danger he had been in, which he had faced without apparent fear. He had shown no regard for his injuries, either, including the broken finger. She loved him as a gentleman, but sometimes a woman enjoyed knowing her man could succeed in a brute contest of strength and savagery.

  She ate breakfast and sat down to work on her cross-stitching with her mother when she heard the butler address her father, announcing a caller.

  “Lord Auburn is here to see you, sir.”

  Lord Auburn.

  “Ouch!” She dropped her needle and put her thumb to her mouth to suck the drop of blood she had drawn.

  Had her father invited Auburn over?

  The mere sound of his name made her stomach tense.

  “Show him into my study,” her father said, rising.

  She glanced at her mother, who seemed as disturbed as she over the arrival of the overbearing lord. She could not help but remember her mother’s overheard words to her father. She supported her match with Darlington.

  “Why do you think he is here?”

  Her mother pursed her lips. “I think you know perfectly well why,” she said, though her gaze held sympathy.

  “Does Father still prefer—?”

  “I do not know,” her mother cut in. “He is well aware of your preference.”

  “Mother,” she began, then stopped, unsure how to go on. Neither of her parents had said a word to her about her attempted elopement.

  Her mother did not look up from her own cross-stitching. “It will all work out,” she said.

  “How will it all work out?”

  The older woman shrugged her shoulders. “I do not know.”

  She sighed and the two of them fell into an uncomfortable silence, each working on her hoop, the air charged between them.