by Allison Lane
Richard grimaced. He didn’t know how much she was spending on the birds, but if they paid for Eton, she must be doing well with them. Again he had made a cake of himself. Dismissing his secretary, he skimmed the report. It contained a wealth of details but no further revelations. Yet it raised as many questions as it answered.
Why did Lady Avery hate the Wingraves? She had not met them socially in seventeen years, for she avoided any gathering that included them. This did not limit her own social calendar, for the Wingraves rarely attended private parties, preferring the public assemblies that Mathilda considered vulgar. She continued her antagonism despite ridicule from her peers, yet none of her charges withstood scrutiny.
He frowned at the last page. Cawdry had been misled on one point. He depicted Penelope as a calm, intelligent, and astute manager, a role she must have played for the bank directors. But Richard knew from personal experience that she was a tempestuously emotional harpy who would go to any lengths to achieve her goals. Intelligence he would grant, for she routinely tied his logic in knots, but no one who knew her could ever describe her as calm.
He also suspected that her finances were on shakier ground than everyone thought. Just yesterday he had spotted her entering an Exeter pawnshop with a bundle under one arm. Was she supplementing an inadequate income by selling her valuables? Two years of bad crops spelled disaster for anyone living close to the edge. Or some crisis may have demanded more cash than she had. The evidence supported his own view that desperation over growing poverty and incessant mortgage payments had prompted a plot to entrap Terrence.
But she would not get away with it.
Setting the report aside, he returned to cleaning out Gareth’s desk. Now that the estate was running smoothly, he was sorting his uncle’s private papers, filing some, discarding others. One entire drawer was packed with trivial correspondence. Why would anyone bother keeping it? he wondered in disgust, filling one basket and starting a second.
“What the—” In the very back was a beautiful inlaid box. His hand shook as he pulled out a miniature of Penelope Wingrave. Fiery curls brushed alabaster cheeks. Blue eyes sparkled with mischief. His lips tingled at the memory of her mouth softening in response to his pressure, parting at his command…
“Idiot!” he growled, shaking his head at the sensual fantasies exploding through his brain. Was he suffering from delayed adolescence? Mark had often urged him to loosen his control and enjoy life more. Or was Miss Wingrave determined to drive him insane? Whatever the cause, he must leash his rampaging emotions.
As he stared at the miniature, almost daring it to make trouble, his shoulders slumped in relief. It wasn’t her after all, though the likeness was close enough to make his skin crawl. But the clothing was wrong and the face longer and a little fuller. The box also held a worn journal and a packet of letters. Opening the book, he skimmed random entries, but soon returned to the beginning to read the diary in earnest. The miniature depicted Lucinda Wingrave.
Poor Gareth.
Richard’s heart bled for his uncle. The man had found a soul mate such as few people ever discovered. Unfortunately, Lucinda was already married. They fought their attraction for nearly six months, but as her pregnancy advanced, her fears, frustration, and growing love sparked intense emotional storms that only Gareth could control. Inevitably they succumbed to their mutual passion, though their ecstasy was always tinged with guilt over deceiving Walter. Yet they could not stop. The torrid affair lasted the rest of Lucinda’s life. Perhaps they would have been happier if they had run away together, but she had been a deeply religious woman who could not abandon all the shackles of morality. And Gareth had responsibilities to his title and estates.
Would they have been as close had they been free to wed?
He closed the book and set it beside the miniature. Perhaps it was the illicit nature of their relationship that had fed their boundless passion. But the story plucked a chord in his heart. He could not forget his first encounter with Lucinda’s daughter nor his own uncharacteristic behavior.
Absolutely not! He shoved the nebulous thought firmly aside and skimmed the letters. Each was signed L. W. Phrases leaped out to torment him. —need you more than life itself … knew the moment you fell, my love, for I felt you hit the gate … regret harming Walter, but how can I deny our love? … might be late, but I must see you … Walter has damned my soul, but I care not. Your dower house is all the heaven I will ever need…
Envy dragged at his heart. And pity. Why had a benevolent God brought them together too late to love honorably?
Perhaps this had prompted his aunt’s antagonism. If she knew of the affair, she might see her neighbors as rivals for Gareth’s affections.
But that was preposterous. Lucinda had died more than a year before Gareth’s marriage. There was no evidence that he had paid any attention to Penelope. She could only remind him of what he had lost, so there would have been no rivalry. Gareth had recorded the day that Mathilda denied him her bed, attributing her sudden repugnance to her new pregnancy. She had never relented.
But the affair might explain Gareth’s laxity over Tallgrove. Once Lucinda died, he had taken steps to assure his succession. But he cared little for the estate or his growing family, spending much of his time shut away in the library. Both the journal and Lucinda’s notes were thin from frequent handling.
* * * *
“You are a breath of sunshine, capable of warming the coldest day,” exclaimed Darksmith, catching Millicent’s hand in his own. He kissed her fingers, drawing them into his mouth and gently sucking. His tongue touched the inside of her wrist, moving seductively up her arm until she was firmly clasped in an embrace that tightened once his lips reached hers. She moaned, arching into him.
“Am I really?” she gasped when he eventually led her to a bench set against the back wall of the folly. He dusted it for her, then assumed a seat at her side.
“No one else glows with such radiance. How have I lived so long without you?” he murmured, sliding an arm around her shoulders as his other hand trailed lightly over her bosom, peaking the breast that lay above her pounding heart.
She shuddered. “We should not be doing this.” But she made no move to pull away.
“I know, my love, but it is difficult to restrain myself. You make me feel so invincible, so powerful, so much a man. You are the light of my life, the keeper of my sanity, the hope of my future.” He pulled her into another kiss that left her gasping for air.
“Lord Carrington does not approve of you,” she whispered into his cravat as his hand softly stroked her hair. “I fear he will prevent you from courting me. Already he has assigned a servant to accompany me whenever I leave the house. I eluded her today, but it will be more difficult in the future.”
“It matters not, little one,” he crooned. “I can be patient if I must, but he cannot force me to abandon you. He will acknowledge that in the end.”
“I hope so, but he is not the sort to change his mind. And he is a power in society. I fear what he could do to you.”
He kissed her again. “Set aside your concern, my love. No power can destroy what we share. I can provide for you without help from your family.” He straightened with a frown. “Or I can once I defeat the plots of Sir Reginald St. Juste.”
“What a curmudgeon he is!” exclaimed Millicent. “But how can he harm you?”
“He is the one whose claims threaten my inheritance. Your father was helping me, as you know. I had hoped to find corroboration of the truth elsewhere, but have been unable to do so.”
“Then all is lost.” Tears trembled in her eyes that he gently kissed away.
“Not all. I suspect a record of the original transaction exists in one of the Tallgrove ledgers, for my estate and Tallgrove were originally owned by the same man. I was going to ask Carrington if he would allow me to look at them. But you are right to distrust him. If he has taken me in dislike, he would never provide me with the means to support a wife.”
“That is easy to believe. He is odious!”
He nuzzled her neck, dropping kisses onto her shoulder even as one hand loosened her gown to push it lower. “Will you find the book I need, my love?” His lips reached her newly exposed breast, his tongue and teeth teasing the nipple until she arched into him, moaning loudly.
Her hands threaded his hair, pulling him closer until his mouth covered her entire breast. “Mortimer,” she sobbed, turning so his hand could reach the other one.
He eased back, pulling her against him as he returned to her lips. “We must be careful, my love,” he murmured. “In all ways. Can you find the proof of St. Juste’s perfidy? Only after the ownership of Belle Noir is irrevocably established can I turn my thoughts to marriage.”
“Perhaps.”
“The entry should be in the ledger that covers the year 1620, my darling Millicent,” he murmured, his breath again tickling her exposed breast. “You will find it either in the estate office or the library. Bring it here.”
“I will do my best. Oh-h-h…!”
“My future in your keeping,” he finished, moving back to her mouth to muffle her voice. His hand gently replaced her bodice. “Slip it under the cushion, my love. We cannot risk being seen together until I have the right to claim you. As for Carrington, if you comply with his demands for a few days, he will stop watching you.”
“How clever you always are, Mortimer.” She pulled him back into her arms. After a final embrace, he slipped away.
* * * *
Millicent had waited impatiently for Lord Carrington to leave the library. None of the ledgers in the office included the year 1620, though the collection extended back to the 1400s. But that only confirmed the importance of that particular book. Her father must have removed it so he could examine it undisturbed.
But after half an hour of searching, she was ready to give up in despair. Had he taken it to his room? Had it been lost? Perhaps Carrington had found it and recognized its worth. Though his demeanor toward Mortimer had been all that was polite, she sensed that he despised the man and would go to any lengths to deny her betrothal. She shivered.
He would not dictate her future. All his talk of governesses and rules was ridiculous. She would make her bows to London society in the spring – as a married lady. Mortimer knew everyone and would introduce her into the highest circles. But first she had to find proof of his inheritance. Dear Lord! How would they manage if it was gone?
But her fears were finally put to rest. The ledger was there, jammed into the bottom shelf and nearly hidden behind a cabinet. The lettering on the spine glowed in the dim light – 1608-1623. She was opening it when footsteps sounded in the hall. Thrusting the book behind the cabinet, she skittered across the room to a shelf of novels.
Richard halted in the doorway. “Were you looking for me?”
“N-no.” She flinched as his gaze shifted to her damp slippers. “Just for something to read.” She grabbed the third volume of Clarissa Harlowe.
He stared at her, face creased in a frown. “You seem nervous today. Have you been out?”
“Only to walk in the garden.” But she could not stop the heat that seared her face, and knew that she blushed.
“You know you must take a chaperon when you leave the house,” he reminded her. “Yet Rose believes you to be in your room.”
“Must I be accompanied even in my own garden?” she asked.
“You are no longer a child, Millicent. Do you wish to destroy your reputation by accidentally running into a gentleman?”
She blushed again, then recalled Mortimer’s suggestion. “I will always take Rose in the future, my lord.”
He nodded and waved her out. She had no choice but to leave, for he settled behind the desk and pulled out a large stack of papers.
* * * *
What was she up to now? wondered Richard. She must have met Darksmith again, probably by arrangement, but her nervousness hinted at something more. Was she planning an elopement? But he clung to his impression that Darksmith was not truly interested.
His head shook. Millicent was headstrong to a fault and accustomed to getting her own way. Even doubling the watch would not keep her from slipping off on her own. He would need the devil’s own luck if he hoped to keep her safe.
* * * *
Millicent slipped into the library, a forest green dressing gown hiding her white nightrail. She had despaired of Carrington ever going to bed. Midnight had passed before he finally retired. Using a poker, she fished the ledger out, fighting panic all the while, for the task took longer than she had expected. It had fallen well back and the cabinet was too heavy to move. Unlocking the French window that led to the terrace, she tiptoed into the night. An hour later she returned to her bed, shivering from cold and from the ever-present fear that Carrington might have learned of her errand.
But no one burst in to accuse her. Within the hour, she had relaxed enough to consider her future as Mortimer’s wife. Memories of his kisses filled her mind. Dawn streaked the sky before she slept.
Chapter Eleven
“What does he want now?” murmured Penelope when Mary brought Carrington’s card to the bookroom. The last thing she needed was another argument with Terrence’s irritating guardian. But that was the direction the day was heading.
While feeding the ostriches that morning, she had noticed a gash on Fluff’s neck. More than an hour had passed before Ozzie would allow her close enough to tend the wound. She might have raised him from a chick, but he was very protective when it came to his family. Fortunately, the injury was not as serious as it had first appeared.
But she had barely returned to the house when word arrived from the pottery that an entire batch of bowls had shattered during firing, probably from impurities in the clay. She sighed. Maintaining quality was a problem for most small operations. This was not the first time it had happened, and would not be the last. But the timing could not have been worse. They would have to discard the entire clay shipment and reorder. Despite money being in short supply, it must be done immediately. She could not afford to lose this customer. Would the supplier extend her credit, or must she pawn her pearls?
And now this. Leery of being alone with him, she considered denying her presence, but that would be cowardly. Besides, Carrington was the sort to storm the bookroom if he suspected she was avoiding him. “Tell Mrs. Peccles to set up a tea tray. I will join him shortly.”
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
Richard turned from his perusal of Walter Wingrave’s portrait. Despite her conventional greeting, she was wary, seating herself in a chair as far from him as possible. And who could blame her? They exchanged comments on the weather until the maid had delivered refreshments and taken her leave.
“What brings you to Winter House?” she asked bluntly.
“I owe you an apology – several, actually.” He nearly laughed at her expression.
“You do, but you could knock me over with a feather. I had not expected you to ever admit an error,” she conceded, setting her cup on a table as she scrutinized his face.
“Astute of you. Apologies do not come easily to my lips. But this is an unusual situation. My conduct this past week is not at all typical, I assure you. I am not normally considered surly or insulting – or lecherous, for that matter.”
“You are not the unprincipled libertine I presumed?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then why have you indulged in such aberrant behavior?”
She wasn’t making this easy. “I still cannot explain our first meeting. I have a well-deserved reputation as a deliberate thinker who never acts without careful consideration.”
“You?” She burst into laughter. “I find that hard to believe. Or did you decide to throw over the traces, figuring that Devon is too far from your usual haunts for word to drift back to London?”
“Not consciously.” He paced before the fireplace, fighting to maintain an image of humility. Any attempt to dom
inate her would only put her back up again. “Perhaps you cast a spell on me. Or perhaps that accident was the last straw. It had been a terrible journey, leaving me exhausted and angry, but that is no excuse for taking out my frustrations on a stranger.”
“What happened?” She retrieved her cup, relaxing as she sipped.
“That storm stranded me for two days in a dilapidated inn with bad service and worse food. But that was only the latest in a long string of mishaps. The last four months have brought nothing but problems.”
“Such as?”
He hesitated, but an urge to share his troubles sent words tumbling over each other. “It started last spring when a deluded gentleman challenged my closest friend. Mark won, but his opponent died of unrelated causes less than a week later, prompting a host of malicious stories that accused Mark of murder. He had to retire to the country until the rumors subsided. I joined him.”
“Was that so tragic?” she asked, watching emotions chase across a face that he made no effort to control.
“Not in itself, but it meant that I did not hear of Avery’s death until nearly two weeks after the fact. Even then I could not assume my duties here, for I was caught up in pursuing the author of Mark’s troubles. By the time we unmasked the fellow, Mark’s wedding was upon us, and then I had to escort a young cousin to his father’s house.”
She raised her brows.
“I had been bear-leading the cub. He wished to marry and needed me to convince his parents to sanction the connection.” He grimaced.
“He was not too young?”
“Reggie is the greenest cawker I have ever laid eyes on,” he grumbled. “If he lives to be a hundred, he will still be too young, but allowing him to run loose would be worse. You wouldn’t believe the scrapes he got into in only a month on the town. Besides, the girl will be good for him.”
“Unlike Alice.” Her friendliness transformed to anger.
“Reggie is not my ward, praise God.” It was not an answer, but she said no more. He forced relaxation and humility back on his body. “I arrived home to discover that my mother had arranged another house party crawling with eligible young females. But her latest protégées had even more faults than the last batch, so I returned to Mark’s estate. It was there that I received the hysterical summons from Lady Avery that brought me here. What with the storm, a horse that went lame in the middle of nowhere, and a surfeit of demanding relatives – there are times I loathe being head of the family – I was in a flaming temper by the time I arrived. I know I hit you, yet I never even inquired about your injuries.”