How To Distract a Duchess

by Mia Marlowe

  “What do you mean?”

  “Intelligence gathering. Espionage if you will. Dalrymple was one of the best. He ran a string of operatives that stretched from Bombay to the Punjab.” Trevelyn explained. “Her Majesty’s government depends upon the covert reports of men like your father to make policy in India.”

  “What kind of policy?”

  He spread his hands before him. “We suspect Russia would like to carve up the subcontinent and given the untender mercy the Czar shows his own people, one can only imagine how ill he might use the Indians.”

  “Of course, one might argue that we British have misused the peoples of India as well,” Artemisia said. “Blessings of education and trade notwithstanding, there is a simmering resentment among the natives which even as a child I recognized. One has to wonder how we English would like it if a group of armed Hindus and Mussulmen took over the governance of our island nation, even if they claimed it was for our own good.”

  “I can’t say I disagree with you, but we can discuss the politics another time.” Trevelyn’s smile brought out the dimple in his left cheek. “The fact is, your father’s work helped expose and end abusive practices by some of our countrymen. His contacts kept him apprised of wandering survey teams, native opinion, any covert agreements made with tribal leaders. It’s vitally important work. If we can stop Russian adventurism or an Indian uprising with means short of actual combat, we will. The right information in the right hands can save countless lives.”

  Artemisia took this in with wonderment. She had the utmost respect for her father, but it seemed her esteem for him was still too small. She looked up at Trev.

  He was much more than she’d taken him for as well. He was no bored second son who amused himself with play acting and seducing titled widows. “And you too are involved in this ‘Great Game’ somehow?”

  His shoulders lifted in a self-enfacing shrug.

  “But how does Mr. Beddington and the key figure into all this?”

  “That’s the crux of the matter,” Trevelyn said. “When an operative suspects he’s been compromised or, in your father’s case, falls ill, he sends a key. It contains the encoded names of all his contacts. You can see now why it’s so important for me to retrieve it. If the list fell into unfriendly hands, the lives of your father’s agents wouldn’t be worth a feather’s chance in a whirlwind.”

  She nodded gravely. “And that’s why you were trying to speak with him.”

  “Yes,” Trev said. “Mostly because I couldn’t find the man to whom he sent the key. Your father’s last message told us he’d given the key to Mr. Beddington. We’ve no agent in the corps by that name, so we’ve tried for years, searching out your father’s known associates with no success. Once I discovered the trustee of your father’s estate was a Josiah Beddington, I assumed I’d found him.”

  Artemisia frowned. Her father never knew she used the name as a cover for her business dealings. He was too ill by the time she took the reins of the family fortune in male guise. At any rate, he’d never given her anything she’d remotely consider a key.

  “I’ve had the devil’s own time trying to find the chap, inquiring at all the clubs a man of his stature might frequent, calling at his office, disguising myself to seek employment.” He cast her a wry smile. “Even posing nude as your model, hoping you’d arrange an introduction. Not the most dignified way to serve Queen and country, you must admit. When I finally meet the man, I have to learn how he’s managed to remain so invisible. It’s a trick that will stand me in good stead. Beddington’s the most elusive subject I’ve ever tried to bag.”

  “And once you have the key?”

  “Rumors of a Russian incursion into India have been flying fast and furious for some time, but we’ve no way to be sure. If the Czar is planning a venture down the Khyber Pass, Angus Dalrymple’s contacts will know,” Trevelyn said, barely concealed excitement in his tone. “I plan to revive your father’s string of operatives and start where he left off. It’s the next ship headed for Bombay for me.”

  Artemisia was surprised at the strange tightness in her chest at this news. Hadn’t she wished him on another continent just that morning? Trev sat down opposite her and leaned forward, elbows resting on his spread knees.

  “Now that you know the truth, will you help me? Once I have the key, I will see what can be done to rescue Mr. Shipwash. You have my word upon it.” He reached over and took one of her hands in his. His hand was warm, but the touch sent a shiver up her arm. “Will you take me to Mr. Beddington?”

  “It will do no good,” she said with despair.

  “How do you know till we’ve tried?”

  “Because . . . “ She paused, realizing she was about to hand him information that could sink the entire Southwycke fortune and create a scandal to rock all of London. But there was really no choice. She straightened her spine.

  “I don’t need to take you to him,” she said. “You have already been introduced. I am Mr. Beddington.”

  He released her hand and sat back in surprise. “You?”

  “I use the name Josiah H. Beddington to conduct my family’s business. No one would deal with a woman. Believe me, I tried.” Artemisia knotted her fingers together. “So I invented a male persona and hired Mr. Shipwash to act as my assistant. And I haven’t got any dratted key.” Her face fell. “I don’t know what to do. If anything happens to James, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  He sat still as stone for about a minute. Artemisia could almost see the wheels whirring in his brain as he digested this new turn of events.

  “You must have it and just don’t realize you do,” he finally said.

  “Impossible. I didn’t assume the name Beddington until we returned Home and I began to manage the family business. If your information is correct, my father must have sent the key from India, long before I became Beddington.”

  “Did your father give you anything when he fell ill? Anything at all?” His voice was edged with suppressed frustration. “He might have stashed the key inside a small chest or with a box of jewelry. Did you come across anything unusual when you unpacked your household goods?”

  She closed her eyes, trying to recall anything out of the ordinary.

  “No, he didn’t give me anything and you can rest assured if my mother had found something that didn’t belong with her jewelry, she wouldn’t have suffered in silence,” she said. “You keep calling it a key, but I rather think it doesn’t turn any bolts. What exactly does it look like?”

  “It’s a truly cunning devise designed to both send a message and provide the tool to decipher it. It’s made up of a series of wooden cylinders that line up in a prescribed way to decode the list of names that is scrolled in the hollow compartment inside,” he explained. “It’s small. The key would fit in the palm of my hand.”

  Artemisia cast back in her mind, but couldn’t recall ever seeing an object that fit Trevelyn’s description. “Would anyone be able to use it?”

  “The exact sequence to bring the cylinders into alignment is tricky, but given enough time, a talented cryptographer could work out the code,” he admitted. “That’s why it’s essential that it not fall into enemy hands. Worse yet, since someone else is also looking for Mr. Beddington, it means your father’s last message must have been intercepted by whoever is holding Mr. Shipwash.”

  He dragged a hand over his face and stood to stare out the window. “Another dead end,” he murmured.

  His words lanced her heart. If Trevelyn couldn’t help her, Artemisia was in dire straits.

  If it would do any good, she’d go to St. Paul’s herself and try to reason with the kidnappers. Somehow she must convince them that Beddington didn’t have the key.

  But if they believed her, they would have no incentive to release James Shipwash. They might very well do away with both her and James. She could go to the authorities, but she had no great hope the constabulary would do more than blunder about St. Paul’s crypt, frightening the kidnapp
ers off and thus seal Mr. Shipwash’s fate.

  The fresh face of James’ young wife rose in her mind. How was she going to explain to Mrs. Shipwash that she was widowed because her husband’s employer wanted to dabble in a man’s world? Artemisia’s thoughts flew in circles, like her cat Pollux chasing his own tail. She, who prided herself on her reasoning ability, could see no way to untie this impossible knot.

  Suddenly it was all too much. Without her even being aware of them, tears began leaking from her eyes and leaving runnels down both cheeks. She made no sound, but her whole spirit wept.

  “No, Larla, don’t cry.”

  Trevelyn hurried to her side. His arms were around her and she sank into the warmth of his shoulder, letting the tears fall. When her whole body shook with a suppressed sob, he cradled her head with one hand and pressed a kiss on her crown, a curiously comforting gesture.

  “Please don’t cry,” he repeated. “We’ll figure out something.”

  He slipped a finger under her chin and raised her face. Looking into his eyes, she saw herself reflected in their dark depths. Beyond that image, a slow fire began to burn the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

  “I won’t let you down,” he said softly. “Trust me.”

  She realized suddenly that she did. It was madness itself. Here was a man who’d presented himself under false colors, who lied with ease, whose very character was an enigma, and yet, she’d trust him with her life.

  And the life of Mr. Shipwash.

  Artemisia reached up and pulled his head down. She kissed him. Softly. Simply. As a child might.

  Then she looked once more into the depths of his eyes and felt nothing like a child.

  Chapter 20

  It made no sense at all, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Artemisia kissed him again, parting her lips in invitation. Trevelyn rose to her challenge, claiming her mouth in a kiss that defined sweetness. Then the kiss changed, deepened, and the spark that always crackled between them burst suddenly into full flame.

  His mouth moved over her lips, the hollow of her cheek, and the slender curve of her throat. Chinese fireworks danced over her skin, charging her body with roaming pinpoints of pleasure.

  She put both hands on his cheeks and brought his face up to hers again.

  Finally, she drew back to catch her breath.

  “Oh, my!” she said, realizing the ungovernable power of what she’d unleashed.

  “Quite.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’re never going to be done with it, you know.”

  He reached up and unbuttoned the first button on her blue serge bodice. Surely he must hear her heart, pounding like a coach-and-six in her chest.

  “This thing between us,” he went on as his fingers trailed down to the next button. “Do you have any idea what it is?”

  She shook her head, unwilling to trust her voice.

  “Damn,” he said softly. “I hoped you could explain it to me.” He ran his hand through her hair, pulling out pins and loosing her curls as he went. “I’ve known men who become addicted to opium. It becomes an obsession for them. Now I understand their compulsion. You are my lotus blossom. From the first time I wandered into your studio, though I was initially there to find Beddington, you’ve been all I can think about. And when I’m with you, I can’t keep from wanting to touch you.”

  He returned to her buttons and slid a finger in the small gap to tease the hollow between her breasts.

  “You may not be happy about it, but you accomplished your goal,” she said as he bent his head to deliver a string of kisses from her jaw line to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her pulse jumped. “You’ve found Mr. Beddington.”

  His chuckle was a low rumble. “Yes, I suppose I have. I just didn’t expect to want to take the fellow to my bed.”

  “That is where this is leading, isn’t it?” She undid the next button herself, baring the tops of her breasts to his admiring gaze. “To your bed.”

  He nuzzled her ear and nipped at the tender lobe. “If there’s a God in heaven. . .”

  “There is,” she assured him.

  He kissed her again. Their souls mingled in a shared breath, wandering together unsure which body was their natural habitation.

  Both, she decided.

  He continued to unfasten her tight bodice while his mouth worked its magic on hers. Her breasts ached for his touch, straining at their whalebone prison. When he raised her to her feet to remove her jacket, she helped him out of his as well. One of the buttons on his starched shirt resisted her efforts and popped off, rolling across the floor unheeded.

  “Sorry,” she said when he released her mouth. “I’ll sew that back on for you.”

  He grinned at her before turning his attention to the hooks at her waist. “I would consider one lost button an acceptable casualty count for a skirmish like this.”

  “A skirmish, is it?” Her breath hitched as he trailed his lips down her neck and along the lace at the top of her chemise. “You make it sound as if you and I are at war.”

  “We are.” He straightened to look down at her. “You shouldn’t be surprised. Did you not christen me your god of war? This battle is old as Eden, but it’s one both sides must lose if they are both to win.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you not? As a widow, I would have thought . . .” He cast her a questioning look. “No matter. It will be my great good pleasure to instruct you. You see, Larla, if I cannot bring you joy in this engagement, my own is forfeit. That’s why I say we both must lose in order to win.”

  She lifted her arms as he raised her flounced skirt up and drew it over her head. She cursed fashion that required her to wear an over-petticoat, a hooped crinoline, an under-petticoat, corset, chemise and open-crotch bloomers. One layer down, only six to go.

  “Then I wish you much success with your campaign, sir.” She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and pulled it from him along with the woolen undervest. “I love winning.”

  “So do I.” He loosed the next layer of her costume with a laugh. “But you must admit, the sari was much easier.”

  “‘Anything worth having is worth working for,’ my father always said.”

  “An extremely wise man, your father,” he agreed. The last of her petticoats dropped to pool at her feet.

  His smile faded as he settled to the serious work of disrobing her. She gave him her back so he could loosen her laces, then turned around to face him. He unhooked the busked front of her corset, setting her breasts free beneath her thin chemise.

  With her ribs now unshackled, she drew a deep breath. The heady rush of oxygen almost made her dizzy. Artemisia watched his face as he untied the drawstring at the scooped neckline of her chemise. He pulled the opening wide so he could ease the fabric over her shoulders and down, baring her taut breasts. The muscle in one of his cheeks ticked.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Why do you ask?” The strain didn’t leave his jaw line.

  She lifted a hand to caress his cheek. “You seem . . . pained.”

  He covered her hand with his. “No, I’m having difficulty controlling myself and I’m afraid I may scare you.”

  “What about you would scare me?”

  “The things you make me want to do. I’ve never felt like this. I want you so badly, I don’t know if I can bridle myself.” For a moment, she thought his hand tremored on hers.

  “Don’t worry,” she said with tartness. “If I find you scare me, I’ll put the bit in your mouth for you myself.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You little minx. I believe you would.” His eyes darkened with desire as he reached up to fondle her breasts, cupping them gently while his thumbs began maddening circles around her nipples. “You’re so soft, Larla. I can’t get enough of you.” He bent his head to claim her with his mouth.

  She’d started to tackle the buttons of his fly, but the sensation his mouth stirred almost made her forget to breathe. Good Heavens! W
as he using his teeth on her? The slight nip sent pleasure that was a knife’s edge from pain streaking through her.

  Then one of his hands found the slit in her bloomers and his talented fingers played a lover’s serenade on her quivering flesh. With a moan of pleasure, she took a half-step to spread her legs for him. A dull ache began in her secret folds. A few more deft flicks of his fingers and she was in exquisite torment.

  “Please,” she begged.

  “That is my very intent.” He came up for air with a smug grin. “I will not rest until I have pleased you, madam.”

  “Then help me finish undressing you or I shall go mad,” she said.

  “You do have a penchant for nudes, don’t you?” he teased as he unbuttoned his trouser front and let them drop. “As it turns out, so do I.”

  He lowered her bloomers and she stepped out of them, standing in just her stockings and pointed-toed boots. He stepped back to look at her and Artemisia resisted the urge to cover her sex, fig-leaf fashion, with her own hands. He stood, hands fisted at his waist, his phallus fully erect, the musculature in his chest and abdomen rock hard. The god of war seemed intent on planning his campaign.

  “My old elocution professor always admonished me to imagine my audience in naught but their socks so as not to feel nervous about public speaking,” he said. “But I declare, I’d never be able to concentrate on speech-making with you in my audience.”

  Artemisia laughed, but the giggle dissolved into “Oof!” when he scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes.

  “Never laugh at an Oxford don.” He smacked her bare bottom once and strode with purpose toward his bedchamber. She bounced along, head and arms dangling down and noticed that his bottom was within easy reach. She gave his tight buttocks a swat before he lowered her to the bed.

  “Never mishandle a duchess,” she admonished.

  “Duly noted,” he said. “I shall endeavor mightily not to mishandle you, Larla. But I am going to handle you.” The levity left his features. “All of you.”