by Candace Camp
“Or, in some cases, he could ask for direct payment, I suppose—or blackmail someone, as he is doing to Mr. Birkshaw now. ‘If you don’t do as I tell you, I will make it appear that you committed the crime.”’
“Exactly.”
“But who could it be?” Rachel mused. “It would have to be someone who knew a great deal about people who had money or valuable possessions, as well as about who would benefit most from, say, a wealthy relative dying.”
“Yes.” Michael looked at her thoughtfully. “It would almost seem as if it would be someone of the Ton.”
“Michael!” Rachel stared at him, shocked. “You are saying that—that it is a peer? Even someone we know?”
He shrugged. “I am sure there are a fair number of larcenous peers. Now, whether there are many who are clever enough to have thought of this, that is another matter altogether,” he said dryly.
Rachel chuckled. “You are dreadfully unkind.”
“Mmm. Or too truthful.”
“There are others it could be,” Rachel suggested. “Servants hear a great deal of gossip, not only upstairs, but also from other servants at other houses. One can often get the most up-to-date gossip from one’s lady’s maid. Dressmakers, milliners…and I’ll warrant men exchange a great deal of information in front of their tailors or boot makers, as well.”
“Yes, and there are secretaries to men of wealth and power,” Michael added. “That would seem a good field for a possible mastermind—a man of intelligence, even good social standing, perhaps, and lacking in money, or he would not have had to take the position.”
“Yes. You are right. Or perhaps there is more than one person—two, say, one who knows the criminal world and another who knows the wealthy world.”
Michael nodded. “That’s a good thought. Thank you, Rachel.” He smiled at her as he stood up. “I think I should go talk this over with Sir Robert.”
“Blount?” Rachel asked, surprised and, she realized, disappointed, that he was leaving. “But why?”
“He has the best mind I know for this type of thing,” he answered.
“Oh, yes. That’s right. He is the one who got you into investigating such things,” Rachel said. She remembered now his telling her about Sir Robert’s bringing him into the business during the war and later introducing him to Bow Street. Of course, it had been James Hobson who had been telling her the story at the time….
She rose, the ease she had felt with Michael gone now, chased away by the memory of his deception.
Michael, watching her, felt his heart sink. He wished he had not mentioned Blount. Things had been going well until then. Now Rachel looked as aloof as she had yesterday morning when they set out. It seemed as if their conversations were filled with hidden traps, ready to snap to at the first unwary move he made.
“I suppose I will go to the Wilkinson soiree tonight,” Rachel said. She did not really wish to, but it would be a way to fill an empty evening. “I presume you will be with Sir Robert all evening?”
“I’m not sure—yes, perhaps.” There would be little point in his coming home early, he thought. Rachel would not be there.
Michael hesitated, wishing, once again, that he could redo the last few minutes. Then, with an awkward nod, he picked up the list and left the room.
Rachel plopped back down in her chair. She thought about going up and dressing for dinner. It seemed pointless, with Michael being gone. Perhaps she would just have her supper brought to her on a tray in her room. She knew she had no interest in going to the Wilkinson soiree, either.
She ate an early supper and spent most of the evening reading. The whole time there was a niggling little hope inside her that Michael might come home earlier than he had said, though she tried time and again to quell it.
Finally, around ten, she went up to her bedchamber and rang for her maid. She did not want to appear to be waiting up for Michael, so she put on her nightgown and dressing gown and took down her hair. Turning the lamp down low, she sat down on the window seat in her room, gazing out into the dark night and brushing her hair.
The moon was only a sliver, providing little light on the landscape, but street lamps at the end of the block provided two circles of illumination in the blackness. Outside the glow of the lamps, one could see little other than the looming bulk of buildings.
Rachel brushed her hair, the long even strokes soothing, almost hypnotic, her gaze on the street. She would not have admitted, even to herself, that she was watching for Michael, but when the dark figure of a man came walking into view in the distance, she straightened, leaning forward to focus on it. As he strode into the light of the street lamp, she saw that it was indeed Michael, and her pulse speeded up a little.
She continued to watch as she tried to decide what she should do. Go to bed and pretend that she did not care what time he came in? Or perhaps she could go down to the library and look for a book, act surprised when he walked in the door. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was waiting for him. She was not. Yet she would like to hear what he and Sir Robert had discussed.
All such thoughts flew out of her head, however, for as she watched Michael leave the circle of light and step into the dark again, suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, three men rushed out from the darkness at him and set upon him with their fists.
CHAPTER 17
“Michael!” Rachel shrieked, jumping to her feet.
She whirled and ran from the room, pelting down the stairs, calling for the servants at the top of her lungs. “Westhampton is being attacked. Help! Help!”
By the time she reached the front door, footmen, maids, Michael’s valet and even the dignified butler were rushing toward her. Rachel flung open the door, then, seeing a potential weapon in the umbrellas stuck into the umbrella stand beside it, she grabbed the stoutest-handled one and ran out into the night, brandishing the umbrella in her hand and screaming Michael’s name.
* * *
Michael had stayed longer with Sir Robert than he had intended to, but even after they had gone over the facts of the cases, as well as the possibilities, in great detail, he found himself reluctant to return to his house, knowing that Rachel would not be there. He tried not to think about her at a party somewhere, laughing and talking with her friends, thinking not at all of him. So it had taken little urging on his friend’s part to get him to have a drink, and then another, before he set out for home again.
He had almost reached the house when suddenly three men darted out from behind the bushes and came straight at him. Caught by surprise, he did not manage to completely dodge the first fist aimed at him, and it caught him on the side of his head. Michael turned and swung at his attacker, landing a flush hit on the man’s jaw that sent him staggering backward. But the other two men jumped on him, and though he kicked and punched, he was no match for the two of them, especially after the man he had hit staggered to his feet and waded into the fight again.
Michael was knocked to the ground, and as he struggled to stand, fists and feet thudding into him, he saw the astonishing sight of Rachel running down the street toward him, holding aloft an umbrella, hard, hooked handle upward, and screaming like a banshee. Behind her came the rest of his household, from the hardiest footman to the lowly potboy, shouting and carrying torches and assorted weapons such as pokers, mops and iron skillets.
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!” exclaimed one of his attackers, with the distinct sound of Ireland in his voice, as he looked up and saw the group bearing down on them.
The three men hesitated for an instant, then took to their heels, leaving Michael where he lay.
“Michael!” Rachel reached him and dropped down beside him on her knees.
Her robe had come undone as she ran and now hung open; her hair was loose and tumbled down around her shoulders in a thick black fall. She was, Michael thought, the loveliest sight he had ever seen.
“Rachel…” Michael said and smiled. “You came to my rescue.”
“Of co
urse! I was at my window, and I saw those men set upon you.”
“My lord! Are you all right?” Garson, Michael’s valet, squatted down on the pavement beside Michael and reached out to help him rise, while the butler hovered over him anxiously.
Several of the footmen kept after the attackers, chasing them down the block, but most of the servants stopped when they reached Michael, forming a gawking semicircle around Michael and Rachel on the ground.
“I am fine,” Michael assured them, ignoring the pain in his side as well as the throbbing in his head.
Rachel reached out to take his other arm, and between them, she and the valet helped Michael to his feet. Solicitously, Rachel slipped her arm around Michael’s waist, and he put his arm around her shoulder, leaning slightly against her as they walked back to the house, the crowd of servants trailing along after them. The truth was that, though he was feeling various aches throughout his body, he could have walked without assistance, but Michael enjoyed the feeling of Rachel’s body close against his side too much to tell her that.
Once inside the house, the butler took charge of the servants once again, sending a maid to bring cold water and cloths up to Michael’s room
Garson escorted Michael up the stairs, solicitously hovering at his side, ready to reach out and give him an assist. Once inside him bedchamber, Rachel guided Michael over to the side of his bed, where he sat down.
Garson bustled up, saying, “Let me help you out of that coat, my lord, so that we can see to your injuries.”
“I’m all right, Garson. No need to hover. Lady Westhampton can tend to me.”
Garson looked startled. He cast a quick glance at Rachel, then looked back at Michael. “Very well, my lord. If you are sure.”
“I am.”
Looking somewhat affronted, the valet bowed and left the room. Rachel helped Michael off with his coat and laid it aside, then started to unbutton his shirt. She was bending down, her head close to his, and her perfume filled his nostrils. He was very aware of her fingers on the buttons of his shirt, and he could not help but think of the other day, when Rachel had seduced him as part of her revenge, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off his body.
Rachel’s mind, too, turned to the other day and the way she had so brazenly undressed him. It amazed her a little that she had had the courage. It also occurred to her to wonder how she had been able to stop and play out her joke on him, for right now, this close to him, in this intimate setting, all she was able to think of was how much she would like for him to take her in his arms.
The maid knocked, and Rachel jumped at the sound. Quickly she took a step backward as the maid bustled in and put a bowl of water on the bedside table, laying a small stack of cloths down beside it. After the girl left, closing the door behind her, Rachel went to the bowl and soaked one of the rags in it, then squeezed it out.
Turning back to Michael, she held the cold compress against his cheekbone, where there was a raw, red patch. Michael finished taking off his shirt, wincing a little, and tossed it aside. There were red splotches on his chest and stomach, one already starting to purple.
Rachel sucked in her breath when she saw them. “Lie down,” she ordered, and took his hand, putting it against the cloth to hold it to his face while she went to wet another rag and bring it back to lay on the injuries on his chest. Again and again, she wet the rags and squeezed them out, then folded them up and placed them against each sore spot.
Michael lay, his eyes closed, luxuriating in the gentle touch of Rachel’s fingers, the coolness of the cloth. He scarcely noticed now the soreness of his bruises, so sweet was the sensation of Rachel caring for him.
Rachel was sure that she must be a thoroughly wanton woman, for as she looked at his naked chest, her mind kept turning to lustful thoughts. He was hurt, yet all she could think of was how it felt to touch his skin, how much she wanted to stroke her hands across his chest, to bend down and kiss the smooth flesh.
She glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, lashes fanning his cheeks, giving him a vulnerable look that somehow stirred her desires even more. Without stopping to think, Rachel raised her hand and lightly brushed her fingertips across his cheek.
Michael opened his eyes and looked at her, and there was in his gaze the same hot hunger that she had seen in his eyes before, when he was pretending to be James Hobson. She drew a quick, uneven breath, heat rising up her throat and into her face. She hardly dared to move, for fear it would break the fragile moment and throw them back into their stiff separation.
He reached out to her other hand, which rested atop the cool cloth on his chest, covering her hand with his. Slowly, lightly, he slid his fingers up her arm, then just as slowly back down to her hand. Her skin tingled, suddenly intensely alive wherever he touched it.
Tentatively, without speaking or even daring to look into Michael’s face, Rachel trailed her other hand down from his face onto the hard plane of his chest. Fingers spread out, she drifted across his chest, exploring the differing textures of smooth skin over-laying muscle and bone. She could feel his response in the quiver of his skin, in the quickening of his breath, and it emboldened her to glide her hand lower, onto his stomach.
“Rachel…” Michael sat up and took her face between his hands.
Rachel looked up at him. His eyes burned into her, and desire softened his mouth. He gazed at her for a long moment and seemingly found the answer he sought in her face, for he leaned forward, and his mouth met hers. They kissed softly at first; then their mouths deepened with passion, their tongues meeting and twining in an intricate, intimate dance.
Michael groaned, and his arms went around her tightly, pulling her against his chest. He lay back down, taking her with him. Arms and legs wrapping around her, he pressed her body into his, and Rachel strained to be even closer, yearning to somehow melt into him. They rolled across the bed, kissing and caressing, the bonds of restraint that had been in place for years snapping one after another.
Frantically, heatedly, they kissed, their hands roaming each other’s bodies. Tasting, touching, they explored with all the ardor they had denied themselves for so long.
His hands were beneath her open dressing gown, moving all over her body, with only the thin material of her nightgown between his skin and hers. He bunched the material in his hands, pulling it up until his fingers touched the bare skin of her thighs. He moved up beneath her gown, exploring the petal-like softness of her flesh. His breath rasped harshly in his throat. His senses were filled with her—the scent, the feel, the taste. He longed to sink into her, to rush to the fulfillment he had waited so long for, yet at the same time he wanted to savor each exquisite sensation, to feel as much and as intensely as he could.
Rachel quivered and dug her fingers into his shoulders, bombarded with such a dizzying rush of pleasurable sensations that she felt as if she might simply break up and fly apart at any second. The faintly roughened skin of his fingertips teased her delicate flesh, roaming her thighs and moving up onto her hips. She moaned as his hand moved onto the soft, flat plane of her stomach, then up until finally, satisfyingly, it curved around the soft orb of her breast. He cupped and caressed it, teasing the nipple into aching hardness.
She dug her heels into the bed, arching up against him as he stroked her breast, then took the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently. Desire shot through her, and she pulled away, shrugging out of her dressing gown and shoving it aside. Eagerly he helped her take the nightgown off over her head and tossed it off the bed.
Letting out a long breath, Michael looked at her, his gaze roaming down over her naked white body. She was as beautiful as he had always dreamed she was, smooth and alabaster-skinned, the soft, full orbs of her breasts centered by pink-brown nipples.
Rachel lay back down upon the bed, stretching her arms up over her head. She realized that she loved the way he looked at her, that the touch of his heated gaze was almost as pleasurable as the touch of his hand.
Still gazing at her, Michael stood and quickly skinned out of the remainder of his clothes, letting them drop to the floor, then returned to the bed. Leaning on his elbow, he placed his other hand on her chest, moving slowly down over her breasts and onto her stomach, desire burgeoning in him as he watched his hand on her skin and saw her move in response to his caresses.
His fingers delved down between her legs, and Rachel jerked in surprise, her eyes flying open. But the pleasure he evoked in her did not leave room for modesty; she gasped, catching her lower lip with her teeth, and began to move with the thrilling sensation. His fingers opened and explored her soft, secret femininity, stroking and caressing until passion was thundering in both of them.
Then he bent and touched his tongue to her nipple, and Rachel let out a strangled noise of pleasure, her fingers digging into the sheets as if to keep herself anchored to the bed. Lips and tongue loved her nipple, turning it into a hard, aching bud, while he continued to stroke and caress her nether lips, until she was moaning and desperate, her hips moving on the bed, her fingers digging into his shoulders and arms.
She wanted him inside her, but she could do no more than gasp out his name like a plea.
He moved between her legs then and slid into her. She tightened at the bright flash of pain, and he paused, kissing her neck and murmuring soothing sounds as he stroked her legs and sides. She relaxed, and he sank deep within her, and then there was no more pain, but only a deep satisfaction, mingled with a throbbing, urgent need. He moved inside her, thrusting in and out in a deep, primal rhythm, and Rachel matched him, wrapping her legs and arms around him.
Pleasure built inside her, swelling and pulsing, aching for release, until finally it exploded inside her, sweeping up through her so that she cried out, trembling under the force of it. Michael shuddered, groaning, as his own release took him. He collapsed against her, and they lay tangled together, damp and hot and, at last, at peace.