‘And the other issue?’ Riordan asked. There was nothing more to be done about the Vales today, but perhaps Browning had better news on other fronts.
Browning disappointed him immediately with a shake of his head. ‘The investigation regarding your brother’s death has turned up nothing. We’ve spoken with the house staff in Sussex. They noted nothing unusual in the days leading up to the incident.’
Riordan frowned. Browning couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. ‘What about mail? Had there been any letters or news that might have upset him?’ It was hard to believe anything so disturbing would have arrived by mail. Elliott was unflappable, not easily alarmed.
‘Nothing that anyone was aware of. We did conduct a search of his rooms and the house.’
‘Relationships?’ Riordan hardly dared to voice the thought. It seemed somehow dishonourable to his brother’s memory. But at this point, all the usual rocks had been turned and nothing had been found beneath them. The finances and debts were all in good standing. But something was not right. Elliott was dead without cause.
‘I hardly know what you mean.’ Browning furrowed his brow in puzzlement.
Riordan had hoped Browning for once might use his imagination and save him the effort of explaining in painfully explicit terms. Apparently, he was going to have to be a bit more plainspoken.
‘Was my brother a molly? Did he have a male lover?’ Riordan ground out the words. He knew of men who’d killed themselves either to prevent exposure or because of it, the shame too great. Last year, the Duke of Amherst’s fifth son had been found out and three days later had been discovered floating in the Thames.
Elliott was thirty-three, after all, and to Riordan’s knowledge his brother had never been in love, never seriously courted a lady although he was well aware of his duty to procreate and continue the earldom. But certainly, as close as they were, he would have known, wouldn’t he?
Browning’s face was crimson. He’d discomfited the poor man beyond the usual.
‘There is nothing to indicate that.’ The words came out in a hoarse wheeze of offence over the subject.
‘There has to be something. Keep looking, keep asking questions,’ Riordan encouraged. ‘Someone, somewhere, knows something and we will find them.’ It was his dismissal. Browning had delivered enough bad news. It had been a good day up until now. As soon as the solicitor left he could get back to life as usual: women, wine and forgetting.
*
He started with the wine and forgetting the moment Browning had been shown out. Riordan poured himself a healthy tumbler of brandy and settled into his favourite chair by the fire. Maybe he’d follow it up with a woman later. Lady Hatfield had indicated interest at the Rutherfords’ last night, but it wasn’t Lady Hatfield who came to mind. Instead it was a woman with cinnamon tresses and green eyes, who was bold and cautious, impetuous and reserved, hungry for a taste of life, of passion if she dared. If he dared. He was aware that that particular woman was the only thing giving his home a whiff of decency at the moment.
Conventional wisdom suggested he couldn’t afford to run her off until he could put his plan in motion.
Too bad. She’d been delightful in his arms today while they’d flown the kite.
The gentle curve of her hip, the slenderness of her waist, the tempting pout of breasts that were just full enough to fill a man’s hands beneath the muslin bodice of her gown had not gone unnoticed. She would be a pleasure to undress, a pleasure to reveal.
Riordan rose to fill his glass again and moved the decanter to the little table next to his chair. There was no sense in having to keep getting up to fill his glass, not as many times as he planned on filling it tonight. He wanted to banish the doubts that had haunted him since Elliott’s death. Hell, who was he kidding?
There’d been doubts and ghosts long before Elliott’s death. He wanted to banish those, too, wanted to prove the Vales were wrong about him.
He would marry. They wouldn’t expect him to do such an honourable deed and sacrifice himself for the good of others. But they didn’t understand his love for Elliott. He’d do anything for Elliott, he’d make up for all the ways he’d disappointed him in life. Riordan settled in his chair and drank deeply. It was easier to keep the memories chained during the daylight. He could busy himself like he had today with an outing for the children. But at night, without the benefit of moving from one entertainment to another, the memories were free of their chains. He let them come, let the doubts rise with the night, all the better to drive them back with brandy...
He would never forget the horror, the sinking feeling of that day at the art show when he’d scanned the message. In four brief lines on parchment, for which Riordan irrationally would never forgive Browning for writing, he’d become an earl and a substitute father. All thanks to what was politely referred to as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The words were a courteous euphemism for suicide, as if couching the act in terms that implied a hunting accident made any difference. Social sensibilities aside, the outcome was the same: at the august age of three and thirty, Elliott Randolph Fitzsimmons Barrett, Earl of Chatham, was dead and he, Riordan Christopher Barrett of the much shorter name and fewer socially acceptable accomplishments, second son and heir to nothing in particular, was most regretfully still alive, a generally held poor substitute for his brother. It should have been him in that box, not Elliott. That was perhaps the biggest mystery of all.
The manner of his brother’s death had been most shocking and unexpected.
Elliott had been the perfect heir and the earldom was a well-run gem set amidst the green-field bounty of Sussex. As earl, Elliott had had no financial worries.
Elliott’s social record was without blemish. He’d held his seat in the House of Lords with admirable attendance and was every hostess’s dream. There was no reason to make such an abrupt and scandalous end to his pristine life.
The lack of reason had been on everyone’s mind at the funeral. During the reception, the guests had approached him one by one and whispered their questions in quiet tones as if they were the first to ask. Had he known of anything that would have disturbed his brother? Why hadn’t the earl gone up to London as he usually did? Beneath the questions was the unspoken accusation: if Riordan had been there, he could have stopped it.
Riordan wondered the same. If he’d waited to come up to town with Elliott he’d have been there with him. He’d seen Elliott in late March, just four weeks prior. Everything had seemed fine. Elliott had seemed fine. He had a good relationship with his brother. They’d always been close, though not as close in adulthood as they’d been in childhood. Such distance was to be expected. Elliott was the heir and Riordan wasn’t. He had to create a life away from the house. But there was no animosity between them and Riordan saw Elliott often throughout the year. What had he missed on this last visit?
No matter how much brandy he drank, Riordan would never forgive himself for coming up to town early. Still, there might be enough brandy to forget. He had to try. He was doing pretty well until a bright shaft of light penetrated his dark, fire-lit domain.
Riordan shielded his eyes from the intrusion, mumbling a curse. ‘Fielding, get out. I don’t need a butler at the moment.’
*
Maura stifled a groan. She’d made a double error. The room wasn’t the library and it wasn’t empty. She had a witness to her mistake. To make it worse, she’d also miscalculated. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you had gone out.’
When there’d been no dinner summons or an appearance in the nursery to wish the children goodnight, she’d assumed he’d left. She’d assumed incorrectly and now here she was in what appeared to be Lord Chatham’s office, garbed in a dressing gown and night shift at a most inappropriate hour.
‘As you can see, I am most assuredly quite “in”.’ Lord Chatham rose from his chair and held his arms wide in an expansive gesture, a glass in his hand.
Maura shot a disapproving look at the glass, taking
note of the near-empty decanter beside the chair. ‘In your cups is more like it.’ Although it was hard to tell just how far in he was. He walked remarkably straight as he moved towards her, but his clothes were rumpled, his cravat undone, his jacket discarded, leaving him in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, the very same one he’d worn to the park. He’d not left this room since he’d disappeared with the solicitor.
‘I should go. I was looking for the library.’ Past experience had taught her a man in any state of inebriation ought to be avoided. Wildeham was a mean man when drunk. She backed towards the door in a reluctant retreat, but Lord Chatham didn’t strike her as particularly dangerous, only particularly handsome, and the curious side of her wasn’t ready to abdicate the room yet.
He looked utterly rakish in the firelight, his hair falling forwards over his face as it had on the porch when they’d collided. ‘Don’t go, stay and have a drink with me. There’s enough left in the decanter for a delicate swallow or two.’
‘You’ve had enough to drink.’ She should have been out the door by now, but it was hard to leave him.
‘I’m not so very drunk, Maura.’ The sound of her given name on his lips sent a bolt of white heat to her stomach. Who knew a single word could be uttered so seductively? He gave her a crooked grin. ‘If I was, I wouldn’t be able to do this.’
He placed his feet, one in front of the other, on a line running through the carpet pattern and held out his hands on either side like a tightrope walker. He began to move: one step, two, three, four, jump. He leapt up into the air in a ball, clasping his knees to him and landing with perfect balance back on his line.
In spite of herself, Maura laughed. ‘Most likely it proves the opposite.’
He stopped his high-wire act in mid-stride and said with strict seriousness, ‘No, it doesn’t. Everyone knows a drunken man can’t walk a straight line. A drunk definitely couldn’t jump in the air and land in perfect position.’
‘And a sober man definitely wouldn’t try it,’ Maura answered. The response seemed to carry some weight with him. Lord Chatham paused in contemplation, studying the carpet.
‘All right, how about this: Do you see the medallion in the centre of the carpet?
A drunken man couldn’t do this.’ Lord Chatham put his toe in the centre of the medallion and began to dance—a series of pointed steps and sharp pivots, the occasional tight spin. It was unlike any dance Maura had seen. The dance was athletic and masculine.
‘It’s called zebekikos. It’s from Greece,’ Lord Chatham said over his shoulder, executing a final turn. ‘Now, do you think a drunken man could do that?’
‘You’re impossible,’ Maura conceded.
‘Your hair is down.’ He was close to her again, close enough to reach his hand out and take her hair between his fingers. ‘It’s beautiful. I thought so today at the park. You should always wear it down.’ His voice was quiet. Maura was aware of the mood changing between them, shifting from the humour of his little tests to something more potent, something flammable waiting to ignite, something very different from the lewd advances of Wildeham. Now it was time to leave before she gave in to the temptation of her curiosities.
‘Lord Chatham, this is hardly seemly,’ Maura began, aware that her pulse had begun to race in direct contradiction. It might not be seemly but it was definitely exciting. She’d never been so close to a handsome gentleman before. Part of her argued quite convincingly she might not have such a chance again. It would be worth the risk to see where this led, to see if all kisses were wet and harsh like Wildeham’s.
He pressed a finger to her lips and shook his head. ‘Call me Riordan and I shall call you Maura. No more Lord Chatham and Miss Caulfield.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Too much familiarity would breed all nature of problems, not the least of which would be the assumption their relationship as employer and employee was more than it should be. It was much the same logic that governed why farmers didn’t name cows they slaughtered.
‘Well, I do,’ Riordan pressed, his hands most indecently placed at her hips in an intimate, possessive fashion.
‘You have been drinking,’ Maura persisted, but without any real chagrin. That something she’d sensed earlier was about to ignite.
‘I have been a great many things tonight, Maura.’ He drawled her name, purposely defiant. She could feel the heat of his hands warm and welcoming at her hips as they drew her closer until their bodies met. His blue eyes held hers.
‘I’ve been dancing and jumping, and most of all, I’ve been in a room with a beautiful woman far too long without kissing her.’
He claimed her mouth in a move that left her breathless, the taste of him like smooth brandy-flavoured warmth, the hard planes of him pressed against her.
She gave herself over to his touch, her body cognisant of his, of the caress of his hands low on her hips, the scent of his soap, the feel of evening stubble where it rubbed against her cheek. This was a heady intimacy indeed. She nipped gently at his lower lip, experimenting with the sensuality rising between them, secretly pleased when he groaned in approval.
‘Lucifer’s balls, Maura, you’d tempt the very devil himself.’
That was when she knew she had to stop, no matter how much she wanted the kiss to go on. There would only be trouble at the other end of it, if there wasn’t already. She pulled away and did the only thing she could do—she ran like Cinderella at midnight.
Chapter Six
Slam! Riordan bolted into awareness with a jarring start, the type that left one instantly awake and confused. There was a loud squeal and a crash. Good heavens, what were four children doing in his bedroom? Riordan shook his head.
Just two children, thank goodness, and wait...this wasn’t his bedroom. This was the study. Riordan pushed a hand through his hair and fell back on the sofa.
The evening came back in vivid detail—mostly. Unfortunately, he remembered the bad news with absolute clarity. The Vales wanted the children...well, wanted control of their fortunes. He’d been drinking, a fact prompted by the empty decanter beside his abdicated chair.
Cecilia danced in front of him dressed in a gown of aquamarine silk several sizes too big for her, her feet dwarfed in matching slippers and a filmy shawl draped about her shoulders. ‘We’re playing dress-up!’ she announced in a loud voice that hurt his head. ‘You can wear my shawl. It will look pretty with your eyes. We’re going to a ball.’
‘We’re playing hide and seek!’ William corrected in an insistent whisper, making it clear he’d never be caught pretending to go to a ball. He crouched down behind the chair. ‘Hide, Six will be here any second.’
Six. The governess. Miss Caulfield. Maura. His employee. The woman he’d kissed last night. After last night, he doubted he’d ever be able to call her Miss Caulfield again. Riordan groaned. He was in no shape to face her. He’d have to apologise just as soon as he could figure out what to apologise for. Exactly how far things had gone was a bit blurry at the moment. Perhaps he should hide, too. But there was no question of getting off the sofa, not with his head throbbing this much. Cecilia squatted down behind him.
The door opened and Riordan sent up a quiet prayer she wouldn’t slam it— either one of her. He blinked hard to clear his vision. The children might be playing hide and seek but Maura didn’t look as if she were.
‘Children, I know you’re in here. The game is up,’ she said sternly. ‘Children...’
She stopped, spotting him on the sofa. ‘Oh, my lord, I didn’t see you.’ That was rather humbling. She hadn’t seen him last night either.
‘How do you mean that, I wonder? “Oh, my lord”, as in using my title to address me, or “oh, my lord”, as in abject surprise at finding the room occupied?’
He shouldn’t have done that. It ached tremendously to use his wit so soon in the day.
‘Both, I suppose.’ She smoothed her hands on an apron she wore over her dress.
If he didn’t know better she was tr
ying to suppress a smile. It wasn’t the reaction he’d anticipated. He’d thought she’d be uncomfortable. He certainly was. Riordan tempted the fates and sat up very slowly. The world stayed in place. That was very good.
‘I must apologise.’ Maura bobbed a short curtsy that reminded him how guilty he should feel over last night, whatever it was he’d done. He would smile, but it hurt his head too much. The irony of the moment was not lost on him. He was worried he had to apologise for something he didn’t quite remember and she was worried he’d dismiss her. She could oversleep every day and he couldn’t dismiss her, not now that the Vales had laid down their gauntlet. They’d be over the moon about him losing a sixth governess.
‘The children got away from me. I overslept. It won’t happen again.’ She was clearly anxious to be away. Her words rushed out, giving him the distinct impression she’d break into laughter if she slowed down. He couldn’t imagine what was so funny.
‘Children, come on out. Maura has found you fair and square,’ Riordan called.
William and Cecilia emerged slowly from their hiding places, penitent looks on their faces. ‘Where did you get that dress, Cecilia?’ Riordan looked, really looked, at the gown for the first time. It was expensive and well made, far too fine a garment to be found in a child’s dress-up box.
Cecilia pouted and tears started to well in her blue eyes. ‘It’s Miss Caulfield’s.’
The answer came out in a near-whisper. ‘It was just so pretty, I wanted to try it on.’
Riordan cast a pleading glance Maura’s way. He was helpless against Cecilia’s tears, always had been, hangover notwithstanding. Maura stepped forwards and took the little girl by the hand. ‘A lady never goes through another person’s things without their permission. I would have been happy to show the dress to you if you’d asked.’
How to Sin Successfully (Rakes Beyond Redemption) Page 6