She collapsed onto a bench, struggling to hold back her tears. She would not cry over him. She would not! Men were dreadful creatures. And Gran wanted her to marry one of them?
Oh, heavens, what was she to do? Lord Devonmont was obviously not interested in marriage. The viscount would arrive in the morning, and if he offered for her, Gran might abandon her ultimatum just to keep a foreigner out of the family.
Then there was the duke. His kiss might not have thrilled her, but at least he sought a respectable connection, and Gran would be mightily impressed by an offer from him. Celia just wasn’t sure if she could take advantage of that.
But she would see her way through this somehow. Then Mr. Pinter would regret being so awful to her.
JACKSON STRODE THROUGH a door and into a hallway to avoid the servants running across the courtyard toward the orangery, no doubt drawn by the pistol shot. Let Celia deal with them. He couldn’t stand to speak to anyone right now.
What an idiot he was! Had he really thought he could get away with kissing a marquess’s daughter?
And not just any marquess’s daughter, either. Celia, looking oh so tempting in her sumptuous purple gown. Lovely, angry Celia.
Lady Celia, he reminded himself. But he’d never be able to think of her like that again, not when the taste and smell of her still filled his senses.
Hearing voices behind him, he slipped into an empty room to wrangle his emotions into some semblance of control. But it was no use. He could still feel her body yielding to his, still hear her rapid breathing as he’d taken every advantage.
Damn her and her soft mouth and her delicate sighs and her fingers curling into the nape of his neck so that all he wanted to do was press her down onto a bench…
“Hell and blazes!” He thrust his hands through his hair. What in thunder was he supposed to do about her?
And why had she let him kiss her, anyway? Why had she waited until he’d made a complete fool of himself before she’d drawn that damned pistol?
Oh. Right. That was why. To make a fool of him herself. To lull him into a false sense of security so she could prove she could control any situation.
Well, he’d stymied that, but it was little consolation. He’d behaved like a damned mooncalf, devouring her mouth as if he were a wolf and she were supper. If he’d allowed her to speak of their kiss, she probably would have pointed out exactly how insolent he’d been. Would have warned him never to do anything so impudent again.
She didn’t need to tell him. He’d learned his lesson.
Yes. He had.
The memory of her mouth opening beneath his surged up inside him, and he balled his hands into fists.
No. He hadn’t. All he’d learned was that he wanted her more intensely now than ever. He wanted to kiss her again, and not just her mouth but her elegant throat and her delicate shoulder and the soft, tender mounds of
her breasts. . . .
A curse exploded out of him. This was insanity! He had to stop making himself mad by thinking about her as if—
“There you are, sir,” said a voice behind him. “I thought that might have been you who came in here.”
“What the hell is it?” he growled as he rounded on whoever had been fool enough to run him to ground.
It was John, Stoneville’s longest-serving footman and the one the marquess trusted most. The man paled. “I-I beg your pardon, but I thought you’d like to know what I found out about Nurse and Mr. Virgil. You did ask me to look into it.”
“Yes, I remember. Thank you.” Jackson had turned to John because although the footman hadn’t been with the family at the time of the deaths, he knew nearly everyone who had. Jackson forced himself to smile, to relax, to behave as if he were not standing here thinking of how much he wanted to ravish the youngest lady of the house. “Forgive me, I have quite a few things on my mind right now, and that’s made me irritable.”
Unbidden, Celia’s—Lady Celia’s—words leapt into his mind: It will be easier to work together if you’re not always so prickly.
He suppressed a snort. It would never be easy to work with her.
Warily, John approached to hand him a piece of paper. “I’m afraid I haven’t located all the servants you’ve asked about yet. But here’s a list of the ones I have. I’m nearly certain that Nurse—Mrs. Duffett, that is—lives in High Wycombe. I’ve written down the last address anyone had for her, but if you’ll give me a day to talk with a pensioned servant in Ealing, I’ll confirm it and any others on the list.”
Jackson took the paper. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”
Normally he’d go over to High Wycombe and check out the address himself, but it was nearly two hours’ ride away and he’d need at least half a day. He dared not be away from Halstead Hall that long with Lady Celia’s damned suitors trying to get her off alone. So it could wait until the end of the house party.
As John turned to go, something occurred to Jackson. “By the way, did you happen to find out if the nurse ever used paregoric elixir with the children?”
“Oh! Yes, I forgot. The steward said he seems to remember that it appeared in the estate bills from time to time. But he would have to check to be sure. He wanted to know if you wished him to do that.” John frowned. “And he was a bit curious as to why you wanted to know.”
Curious wasn’t good—not if Jackson was to keep this particular line of inquiry secret for Lady Celia’s sake. “Something one of the Sharpes said made me wonder about it. But tell him not to bother.”
He’d just ask the nurse when he met her, though he wasn’t sure it was even worth mentioning.
I feel in my bones that it was real.
He sighed, remembering how fervently Lady Celia had spoken those words. No matter how much trouble she gave him, and how much he wanted to steer clear of her, he couldn’t just dismiss her dream without following it up. She might be the most aggravating female ever to come into his sphere, but she deserved better than that.
Chapter Seven
Celia wasn’t surprised to find herself alone at the breakfast table. It was still early for people to be up, considering that the dancing and card playing had gone on until well past one in the morning. Normally she would still be abed, too, but she hadn’t been able to sleep.
It wasn’t because of her suitors, either. Lord Devonmont’s flirting later in the evening had demonstrated that her mention of marriage hadn’t sent him fleeing. And the duke had danced with her twice. The second time he’d made himself quite amiable, forcing her to seriously consider the possibility of accepting his offer.
Only one thing had her balking: his cool kiss. Especially when compared to Mr. Pinter’s hot ones.
Curse that man. No matter how much she told herself his kisses hadn’t meant anything, her wounded pride wanted to believe otherwise. Her wounded pride insisted they’d been too passionate to be meant only as a lesson.
Her wounded pride was a blasted nuisance.
“The Visconde de Basto, my lady,” said a voice from the door.
With a start, she turned to find a footman ushering the viscount into the breakfast room. “Good morning, sir,” she rose to say cheerily, glad to be distracted from her thoughts. “You’ve arrived early, I see.”
Smiling broadly, he strode over to take her hand and lift it to his lips, brushing a kiss against it in the Continental fashion. “I did not want to miss one moment of my time with such a lovely lady.”
Sometimes she had to strain to make out his words through his thick accent, but she’d caught that perfectly well. “I’m glad you did.” She gestured to the sideboard. “Do have some breakfast.”
“Thank you, I believe I shall. I left town without eating.” He winked at her. “I was in a great hurry to see you.”
She bit back a laugh. Sometimes he was the Portuguese version of Lord Devonmont.
As he strolled to the sideboard, she took her seat and tried to ignore what he wore, but his outrageous attire was one of his few flaws. She un
derstood that fashions were different in Portugal, but really, she’d never seen such a peacock!
Still, she could tell that a fine form lay beneath his red velvet waistcoat and green satin breeches. Fortunately his coat was brown, which helped to mitigate the vividness of the other colors, though he did wear his cravat in an elaborate and rather old-fashioned knot.
Unbidden, Mr. Pinter’s remark about him flitted into her head: Basto is a Portuguese idiot who’s too old for you and clearly trawling for some sweet young thing to nurse him in his declining years.
She scowled. Why on earth would Mr. Pinter think the man so old? Lord Basto’s hair was black as night, where even Oliver’s was starting to show threads of gray. She would guess him to be Oliver’s age—late thirties at most. That was only fifteen years older than she, certainly not out of the realm of possibility for a husband.
She did wish he wasn’t quite so hairy, though. He kept his full beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and she understood that it was quite common abroad, but no man in England wore full whiskers. The first thing she’d do if they married was persuade him to shave.
He sat down next to her at the table with a plate full of eggs and sausage and cast her a serious glance. “I must apologize, my lady. I wish that I could join you here in the evenings as well, but it is very hard on the … how do you say it … company … for my ailing sister.”
“Company? Oh, you mean a companion?”
He smiled gratefully. “Yes, that is the word. The companion must speak Portuguese, and that is not so easy to find. I could only hire the one lady, and she can only come in the day.”
“Yes, I suspect there are few Englishwomen who speak Portuguese. You’re lucky you found one who did.”
“I am sure that is true.” He slanted a glance at her. “I do not dare to hope that you speak it.”
“I’m afraid not.” When he looked disappointed, she added, “But your English is very good, so there’s no need.”
His eyes twinkled. “You are too kind, my lady. Indeed, you are the most amiable Englishwoman I have ever met.”
She laughed. The viscount was rapidly rising on her list. “Some people don’t find me amiable.” Like a certain unfeeling Bow Street Runner.
He struck a hand to his chest. “I cannot believe that! You are such an alma brilhante … a bright soul. How can anyone not see it?”
She grinned at him. “They must all be blind.”
“And deaf.” He tapped his temple. “And not very right in the head.”
“Excellent, my lord,” she said. “You grasped that idiom quite well.”
He looked surprised by that, then smiled. “I have to learn if I am to impress the senhora.”
She cast him a coy glance. “And why would you want to impress me, sir?”
Picking up her hand, he pressed a kiss to it again and this time didn’t release it. “Why would I not?” His wistful expression tugged at her sympathies.
“You’d better eat your eggs before they get cold,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand.
He sighed and did as she bade. After a moment, he said, “I understand that your father’s family is foreign, like me. Is that true?”
“Yes, Papa’s mother was from Tuscany.”
“So he was half-Italian. Is that why your mother married him? Because she liked foreigners?”
He said it so hopefully that Celia snorted. “I think she liked that he was a marquess but didn’t realize what that meant.”
He frowned. “I do not understand.”
“My father was used to living how he pleased, to being fawned over as a marquess. He didn’t change his behavior once he was married.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t faithful to my mother. But she’d married him because she thought they were in love. So his infidelities broke her heart.”
“I see. And you know for certain that he was not faithful?”
We can meet at the hunting lodge.
No, that was too personal to speak of. “I only know because my siblings speak of it. I don’t remember anything of those years. I was too young.”
“That is good,” he said.
She glanced at him, eyebrow raised.
He cast her a searching glance. “No child should have to witness their parent’s—how did you say it?—infidelities.”
“I quite agree.” She gave him a sad smile. “Though I’m surprised you feel that way. I assumed that being from the Continent and of a privileged class—”
“I would approve of such behavior?” He sounded insulted.
But she persisted. “Perhaps. Many noblemen marry for money, to make sure that their estates are taken care of. Mama fancied herself in love with Papa, when all he wanted was her fortune.”
“And you fear that a man will marry you for your fortune,” he said, surprising her with his insight.
“Can you blame me? I want a man to like me for myself, not for what I can provide him.”
“That is very wise of you. And you have a right to expect it, too.” He turned pensive. “But sometimes people want many things, not just one. Money, an amiable wife … peace.”
Peace? What a strange choice. “And what do you want, sir?”
As if realizing he’d revealed too much about himself, he cast her a bland smile. “I want everything, of course. Who does not?” He patted her hand. “But I will settle for an amiable wife.” It was as close to making a declaration of his intentions as he’d come.
So of course Mr. Pinter chose that inopportune moment to enter the breakfast room. “And whose amiable wife are you settling for, sir?” he said in a snide tone.
His gaze dropped to the viscount’s hand resting on hers, then darkened. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand free.
The viscount bristled, tightening his hand almost possessively on hers. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Not yet. The name is Jackson Pinter.” He came to stand directly across the table and bent forward over it to offer his hand to Lord Basto, forcing the viscount to release her hand to take it. “Some would call me Mrs. Plumtree’s ‘lackey,’” he added with a side glance at Celia. “Though I work for Lord Stoneville.”
She colored, remembering the conversation they’d had a few months ago, when she’d called him that. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. No doubt he was still smarting over her pulling a pistol on him last night. “Mr. Pinter does investigations of all kinds,” she explained. “For money.”
Mr. Pinter’s slate-gray eyes bore into her. “Some of us cannot live on our family’s fortune, my lady.”
“While some of us are very fond of biting the hand that feeds them.” If he could throw her past words at her, then she could throw back what he’d said to her months ago.
She was surprised when a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “A hit direct, madam. Perhaps I should get out of the line of fire while I still have my head.”
“Perhaps you should refrain from putting yourself in the line of fire in the first place,” she quipped. “An officer of the law ought to know better.”
“Know better than what?” Oliver asked as he entered with the duke at his side.
Generally, she liked being in a room full of men. But when it was her brother, two suitors, and the only man whose kisses had ever affected her, there was a bit too much manliness in the air for her taste.
“Your sister and I were just having one of our usual discussions,” Mr. Pinter said.
“You mean she was raking you over the coals again,” Oliver said.
“I believe the coal raking was mutual this time,” she said lightly.
Oliver snorted. She could feel the viscount’s gaze on her, and the duke seemed to be watching both her and Mr. Pinter. It was very unsettling.
“So you’re investigating the deaths of the Sharpes’ parents, are you?” the duke asked Mr. Pinter in a conversational tone.
As Celia groaned, Oliver swung his gaze to her. “You told him about that?”
&
nbsp; Last night, she’d been so worried that Mr. Pinter might tell the duke his role in investigating her suitors that she’d blurted out something the family had been keeping fairly quiet until now.
“I’m afraid I’m the one who told him, your lordship,” Mr. Pinter said. “I assumed that he knew, given his friendship with your brother.”
She was shocked that Mr. Pinter would lie to Oliver to spare her embarrassment. Especially since he depended on Oliver for part of his livelihood.
Mr. Pinter’s eyes met hers, and a faint smile curved his lips.
“Sorry, old chap,” the duke said, his curious gaze on her and Mr. Pinter. “No one said it was a secret.” He cast a veiled glance at the viscount. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Looking confused, Lord Basto leaned over to whisper, “I had heard that your mother shot your father as an accident and then shot herself. Is that not so?”
“It’s … complicated,” she murmured, aware of Oliver’s dour gaze on them.
“I see the cat is out of the bag,” Oliver grumbled. “Just so you know, Mr. Pinter is here to explore the possibility that our parents were murdered. If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind, we’d rather that information not be spread too widely.”
“What information?” said a fresh voice from the doorway.
Lord Devonmont. And he had Gabe with him.
“Good heavens,” Celia said, “what are all you men doing up so early?”
Gabe laughed. “We’re going shooting, of course. Well, except for Jarret. He has to be at the brewery.” He glanced at the viscount. “You’ll come with us, Basto, won’t you?”
“I would be delighted.”
“Speaking of shooting, my lady,” Mr. Pinter said as he came around the table, “I looked over your pistol as you requested. Everything seems to be in order.”
Removing it from his coat pocket, he handed it to her, a hint of humor in his gaze. As several pairs of male eyes fixed on her, she colored. To hide her embarrassment, she made a great show of examining her gun. He’d cleaned it thoroughly, which she grudgingly admitted was rather nice of him.
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