Nicola Cornick - [Bluestocking Brides 02]

by One Night of Scandal

Deb sighed and went through to the drawing room, whilst Olivia went upstairs to remove her bonnet. The maid was already laying out afternoon tea in preparation for their return. Deb reflected that her sister’s household ran like clockwork. Olivia was so efficient. Nothing ever seemed to go awry in her life.

  There was the sound of voices raised in the hall and the gentlemen came in.

  ‘If you wanted to go to Newmarket this week, I should be delighted to accompany you, Ross,’ Lord Richard was saying.

  Although she had known that he was present, Deb found that she was so flustered to see Lord Richard again that she dropped her poetry book on the floor. It skidded across the polished wood and bumped against the leg of the rosewood table. She bent to pick it up and a sheet fell out. Cursing herself for her clumsiness in loosening the pages, Deb whisked the paper up and hoped that Lord Richard had not noticed her carelessness with his gift. She stuffed the loose sheet inside the cover and put the book under her arm.

  ‘Good afternoon, Deb,’ Ross said, coming over to kiss her cheek. ‘Did you enjoy your meeting of the reading group?’

  ‘It was quite pleasant,’ Deb said. She could feel herself blushing under Richard’s scrutiny with all the self-consciousness of a green girl.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Stratton?’ he said. His tone was scrupulously courteous, but the message in his eyes was very different, warm and speculative, and it heated Deb down to her toes. ‘Were you studying Christopher Marlowe this afternoon?’

  ‘We were reading Henry Vaughan,’ Deb said coolly. She knew that she had blushed; she could feel her face radiating the heat like a glowing fire. Life was going to be excessively difficult if she could not conquer this curious susceptibility she had to Richard Kestrel. It seemed to get worse every time she saw him.

  Olivia came in and Richard turned to greet her, giving Deb the breathing space she desperately needed. She took the opportunity of surreptitiously trying to put her book back together again. However, when she looked at the loose sheet she realised that it was not poetry at all and could not have come from the same book. It was a curious page of printed symbols. There was an anchor and a seagull and a ship and some wavy lines that she thought must represent the sea. Deb frowned. Her first thought was that it looked rather like a coded message, with the symbols representing certain words…

  ‘May I pass you a cup of tea, Mrs Stratton?’ Richard Kestrel said, at her elbow. Deb jumped. She had not noticed his approach and now she put the book and the sheet aside on the rosewood bookcase and reluctantly allowed Richard to draw her over to the long French windows that looked out over the garden. Olivia and Ross were sitting on the sofa, conversing in low voices over the relative merits of chicken or lamb for dinner. Deb sighed. She supposed that she should be grateful they were talking at all.

  Rather than accept a tête-à-tête with Richard as he so clearly wished, Deb spiked his guns by raising her voice to include the whole group.

  ‘Did Olivia tell you that we saw a copy of Lady Sally’s watercolour book this afternoon, Ross?’ she asked. ‘We thought that you looked very fine.’

  Ross laughed. He looked pleased. ‘Thank you, Deb. I imagine that Lady Sally’s calendar will cause quite a stir.’

  ‘It will cause a riot,’ Deb agreed ruefully.

  ‘You also observed that Lord Richard’s picture looked most elegant, did you not, Deb?’ Olivia said sweetly. ‘I remember you commenting specifically on it on our way home.’

  Deb bit her lip. It was true that she had made an unguarded remark to Olivia on the subject, but she had hardly expected her sister to repeat it. Richard was laughing at her, his brows raised quizzically.

  ‘I am flattered, Mrs Stratton.’

  ‘I suppose you looked quite well to a pass,’ Deb said ungraciously, fidgeting with her teaspoon, ‘but then, Mr Daubenay is a very talented artist.’

  She heard Lord Richard smother a laugh in his teacup. ‘I imagine he must be, to make something of such unpromising material,’ he agreed.

  Deb frowned. It was difficult to try and depress a man’s pretensions when he had no vanity to deflate. Despite the fact that Lord Richard Kestrel was one of the most handsome men of her acquaintance, it appeared that he actually had very little personal conceit. It was rather annoying when she so earnestly wished to take him down a peg.

  ‘I am sure that you do not need me to add my praises to the positive cacophony of other ladies,’ she said. ‘If you wish for acclaim, then you need only wait for the private view, when I am persuaded you will be drowned in a sea of feminine admiration!’

  In response, Richard put his hand on her wrist and drew her slightly apart. Her hand shook slightly; the teacup rattled and she placed it quickly on the windowsill.

  ‘You mistake me, Mrs Stratton, if you think I wish for general acclaim,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Yours is the only good opinion I seek.’

  Deb’s eyes widened. ‘I may lead a sheltered life, Lord Richard, but I recognise a line of flattery when it is spun for me.’

  Richard laughed. He leaned closer so that his lips brushed her ear and all the hairs down the back of Deb’s neck stood on end.

  ‘If you wished your life to be less sheltered, you could reconsider my dare,’ he murmured. ‘A private view of our own would be far more enjoyable…’

  Deb gasped. She threw a hasty glance over her shoulder, but Ross was now moodily perusing The Times and Olivia was apparently engrossed in the Ladies Magazine and neither of them was paying their guests the slightest attention. Deb could not believe that they were so insensitive to the atmosphere in the drawing room when she felt as though she was about to spontaneously combust. Her head was buzzing with tension and awareness and Lord Richard was still holding her wrist lightly. The touch of his fingers against her bare skin was sufficient to send a prickly kind of sensation all the way along her nerves.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, hoping that her voice was steady, ‘but you have no need to repeat your offer. My refusal still stands.’

  She saw Richard’s lips curve into a wicked smile. ‘And yet you kissed me as though you meant it. Several times, in fact…’

  Deb met his gaze. This was a tricky statement to rebut since she was all too aware that she had succumbed to Richard’s skilful seduction with what could be considered a certain amount of enthusiasm. In fact, she had succumbed not once, but twice, so there was no possible way that she could dismiss it as an aberration.

  She burned to think of their kisses. She had enjoyed being in Richard’s arms and wanted to be there again. Yet she remembered the comparison with eating the truffles. They seemed like such a good idea at the time. They were delicious, sinful, a wicked indulgence to which she knew she should not surrender. She was equally certain that she should not surrender to Richard. She gave him a cool smile.

  ‘Remember that I have consigned you to the same category as drinking too much wine, my lord,’ she said, ‘the category of being very, very bad for me.’ She spun away from him and turned towards the door. ‘Excuse me, I must go home. I am promised to drive along the river with Mr Lang this afternoon and do not wish to be late.’

  Richard smiled easily. ‘My route takes me back the same way as yours. I will escort you.’

  ‘No thank you,’ Deb said. ‘I enjoy walking alone. Besides, you know full well that Mallow is not on the way to Kestrel Court.’

  ‘It could be,’ Richard said, smiling engagingly. ‘Besides, I feel that it would be safer for you to be accompanied.’

  Deb arched her brows. ‘Having an escort may be safer in general but in this specific case I do not require your company.’

  Richard laughed. ‘You are always refusing me.’

  ‘I am.’ Deb smiled sweetly. ‘That should tell you something, I believe.’ She called a hasty farewell to Ross and Olivia and slipped out into the hall, congratulating herself on her swift escape.

  She had not gone more than a few paces before she heard Richard’s footsteps behind her and he caught her up a
s she reached the main door, putting a hand on her arm.

  ‘A moment, Mrs Stratton,’ he said. ‘You have left your book behind.’

  Deb felt annoyed at her carelessness. She had hurried out, wishing to escape his troubling presence, but in doing so she had given him a genuine reason to follow her. Now she could hardly be uncivil as a result. She took the book of poetry and tucked it under her arm, reining in her exasperation as Richard held the door open for her and accompanied her down the steps and on to the gravel.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying not to sound too grumpy. ‘There really is no need for you to escort me to Mallow, you know.’

  Richard smiled and fell into step beside her. ‘No need other than to take pleasure in your company.’

  Deb laughed. ‘Why do you persist where there is no hope, my lord?’

  Richard gave her a very straight look. ‘Perhaps I am of stubborn disposition, like you yourself, madam.’

  He held open the little white-painted gate that opened on to the path to Mallow and stood aside for her to precede him. To Deb’s surprise he made no attempt to engage her in teasing repartee and even less to force his attentions on her. They spoke politely enough on a number of topics, from the state of the roads to the current invasion threat and the political situation. To converse with Richard in an entirely natural manner proved dangerously enjoyable to Deb, for he was a most interesting man to talk with. Occasionally he would hold a gate open for her or pull aside a spray of briars from her path with exemplary courtesy. Deb found it disconcerting, not because she had imagined him without manners, but because it made her feel quite ridiculously cherished. She was rather annoyed with herself for being so receptive to his thoughtfulness, but she could not deny that the walk, in the late summer sunshine, was a very pleasant experience.

  The path joined the lane to Midwinter Mallow and from there another white-painted wooden gate led into the back of Deb’s gardens at Mallow House. At the gate Deb paused, preparing to make her farewells and fidgeting a little with her book of poetry as she did so. She realised that she had pulled some of the binding loose and peered at it with dismay.

  ‘Oh dear, I—’ She stopped, staring. ‘Oh—but this is not my book!’

  Richard came across to her. Deb opened the book and flicked through it. Now that she was looking closely, she could see that this book was exactly the same as the one he had given her, except that it was a little older and more worn. The list of odd symbols that she had tucked carelessly inside the front cover was also missing now. She searched the pages, the frown deepening on her brow.

  ‘Are you looking for this?’ Richard enquired affably. He put a hand inside his jacket and retrieved a folded paper. Deb stared from it to his face. He was watching her, but with neither the speculation nor the admiration to which she had become accustomed. There was an unreadable expression in his eyes and a hard line to his mouth and Deb felt a sudden chill. She put out a hand for the sheet, but he twitched it out of her grip.

  ‘Oh, no, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, his voice pleasant but definite. ‘It is scarcely that simple. I believe that you have some explaining to do.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Are you saying that this is your property, Mrs Stratton?’ Richard was still holding the sheet of paper out of Deb’s reach and his intent gaze had not wavered from her face.

  Deb looked at him, bewildered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I found it in the book. How did you get hold of it?’

  Richard ignored her question. ‘So you are claiming that neither the book nor the sheet of paper belongs to you?’ he asked.

  His high-handed manner lit a flicker of temper in Deb. ‘I am not claiming anything,’ she said sharply. ‘I am telling you that that is not my book. You should know—you gave it to me yourself!’

  Richard took the book from her hand and turned it over, scrutinising it. A shadow of a smile touched his mouth. ‘It is certainly not the copy that I gave to you, but that does not mean it is not yours,’ he said smoothly. ‘Presumably you had a copy that you were using before you received my gift?’

  Deb glared at him. ‘I am not entirely sure of the purpose of your questions, Lord Richard,’ she said cuttingly, ‘nor by what right you are asking them—’ She broke off as a cart came around the corner of the road, its wheels churning the dust, harness jingling. Richard gave one sharp glance over his shoulder, caught her arm and bundled her unceremoniously through the wooden gate and into the shrubbery, along the mossy path and past the tangled ranks of holly and laurel.

  Deb was taken aback at the manoeuvre. It was not that she suspected him of any sinister motive, rather that his sudden action had taken her by surprise. As soon as they were out of sight of the road he released her arm and Deb sank down on to the stone bench that had once had a very pretty view across to the river, until her garden had grown so out of hand that it was now hidden from sight.

  Richard remained standing. In the pale sunlight that was filtered through the leaves Deb saw that he was watching her with narrowed gaze. She rubbed her arm automatically and gave him back a defiant look, but under her bodice her heart was beating rather quickly. Whatever this was about, it was no game. She could sense that instinctively.

  ‘I apologise for my actions just now,’ Richard said, immaculately polite. ‘I had no wish for us to be seen or overheard.’ He glanced around. ‘I take it that we are hidden from view here?’

  Deb nodded. ‘No one can see us from the house or from the road.’ She looked at him. ‘I do not understand.’

  Richard paused for a moment, then came to sit beside her on the bench. He sat forward, turning the sheet of symbols over in his hand.

  ‘Please, would you answer some questions for me?’ he asked.

  Deb nodded silently, her eyes fixed on his.

  ‘Before I gave you a new copy of the poetry book, what were you using?’ Richard asked.

  Deb frowned. ‘I shared Olivia’s copy before,’ she said. ‘I do not have a great deal of money to spend on books.’

  Richard’s gaze searched her face. ‘Tell me what happened today at the reading group,’ he said.

  Deb rubbed her forehead as she tried to remember. ‘We studied “The World” by Henry Vaughan,’ she said, ‘then, after we had finished, Lady Sally asked us to go into the conservatory to have a look at the copy of the watercolour book.’

  ‘Did you take your book of poetry with you?’

  ‘No,’ Deb said, wrinkling her brow as she marshalled her thoughts in order. ‘I put it down on the table in Lady Sally’s library and picked it up again as we were on our way out. Except…’ she met his eyes ‘…I must have picked up the wrong book. We had all left our copies there. There was quite a pile of them. We all have the same edition and the books must have become muddled.’

  ‘You all have the same edition,’ Richard repeated. He was smiling ruefully.

  ‘Yes.’ Deb looked enquiringly at him. ‘All five of us have this book.’ She tapped the cover. ‘Mine was the only new copy.’

  Richard’s gaze was intent on her. ‘When did you know about this?’ he asked, gesturing to the paper with the symbols on it that was still in his hand.

  ‘I found it when we arrived back at Midwinter Marney Hall,’ Deb said. ‘I dropped the book and the paper fell out. It was folded over, as though it had been used as a bookmark.’

  She saw Richard’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. ‘Had you ever seen it before?’ he asked.

  ‘No, never.’ Deb shifted on the bench, increasingly uncomfortable. ‘To what end do you question me like this, my lord? Please tell me.’

  Richard sat back and relaxed his shoulders against the stonework with a sigh. ‘I beg your pardon. It must seem most uncivil of me.’

  ‘It does,’ Deb said, determined not to be deflected, ‘and you have not answered my question yet.’

  Richard laughed. ‘No, I have not.’

  There was a small silence whilst Deb waited and Richard declined to elaborate. Deb could feel his gaze
on her and could sense the rapid calculation going on in his mind as he weighed what she had said. She shivered a little in the cool shade. She understood what was going on. He was trying to decide whether he believed her. He was deciding whether or not he trusted her.

  ‘I thought it looked like some kind of code,’ Deb said, taking the bull by the horns.

  Richard raised his brows. ‘Did you?’ he said.

  Deb gave a sharp sigh. ‘Will you stop being so evasive, my lord? What is on the sheet of paper? And what—forgive my bluntness, but I know no other way—does this have to do with you?’

  Richard hesitated, then looked her straight in the eyes, meeting her candour with equal frankness. ‘This, Mrs Stratton, is a coded letter.’ He looked at her and said deliberately, ‘A letter from a spy.’

  Deb felt winded. She blinked at the paper in his hand and then at his face. ‘A spy’s letter? You mean it is written in code because it is a secret message?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ Richard said.

  Deb felt a clutch of fear that she might have bitten off considerably more than she could deal with here.

  ‘And your part in this?’ she whispered. She waited, holding her breath, whilst there was a small pause.

  ‘I told you that I once worked for the Admiralty,’ Richard said, with a faint smile. ‘In point of fact, I still do.’

  Deb felt a curious rush of relief. She studied his face, dark, impassive, a little grim. ‘What are you—a spy catcher?’

  ‘For want of a better word,’ Richard said, grimacing.

  Deb got to her feet and took a pace away from him. Her perceptions of Lord Richard Kestrel, which had already been shaken thoroughly over the last couple of weeks, underwent another shift.

  ‘You have indeed perfected your disguise, my lord,’ she said. ‘I should never have thought it! The gambling wastrel of a rake, who cannot manage to remove his boots without the help of a valet.’

  Richard winced. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I am sure I was never quite as bad as you describe.’

  Deb stared at him, shaking her head. ‘It seems impossible, my lord.’