by Clee, Adele
“A hundred pounds!” Eva gasped. She turned to Mr Ashwood in a state of blind panic. Matters were spiralling out of control. Lord, she could not repay such a huge debt. “I cannot let you part with such an extortionate sum.”
In a move that rocked her to her core—and one she suspected was done to rouse the publisher’s ire—Mr Ashwood cupped her cheek gently and said in his velvet voice, “I would pay a king’s ransom in the hope of making you happy.”
Eva swallowed past the lump in her throat as she gazed into his eyes. He sounded so sincere she struggled to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Heat flooded her body. Three times her stomach flipped as a nervous excitement raced through her veins.
“I cannot accept your charity,” she whispered. “It’s too much.”
It was all too much.
“Nothing is too much where you’re concerned.” He stared at her mouth. “Your publisher needs proof of our commitment. Let us show him the depth of our affection.”
Eva’s heart raced so fast she could barely breathe. Heaven help her. Did Mr Ashwood mean to kiss her? In the office? With her publisher as a witness?
“Give your permission, Eva,” he said, clearly serious in his intention, “for I am not a man who takes liberties at a lady’s expense.”
Eva’s mind whirled. Somehow she managed a weak nod while scrambling to know how to make the kiss look convincing when she lacked experience in that department. But she liked Mr Ashwood, found him appealing on every level. Indeed, she was rather desperate to feel those muscular arms holding her in a warm embrace.
Mr Ashwood took hold of her face between his hot hands. He ran the pad of his thumb over her quivering bottom lip. It wasn’t raging lust she saw in his eyes as he bent his head, it was a tender look that spoke of genuine affection.
Despite fearing she would not appear credible, Eva came up on trembling toes, and their mouths met.
Oh, Lord!
Mr Ashwood kissed her in a slow, sensual way, melding himself to her as if he wished to savour every second. She could taste nothing definable, nothing but a potent masculine essence that swirled through her body to tease her sex. With every skilled caress, the ache intensified. And the heat, oh, the heat from his lips journeyed southwards to warm her lonely soul.
Using nothing more than the satisfying movements of his mouth, he drew her closer. The space between them evaporated. She seemed to melt into him, into the powerful aura that made her feel so safe, so secure. Men had shown an interest in her before, but not like this. Never with such depth of feeling. Never with the promise of unbridled passion.
The highly pleasurable moment was brought to an abrupt end by a loud thud and Mr Hemming’s vile curse.
“You bloody bastard.”
Mr Ashwood dragged his mouth from hers, yet the desperate ache remained. They were both a bit breathless, both a little dazed by the arousing experience. It took a few seconds to break the spell that held them only a few inches apart.
But this was acting, she reminded herself.
This was playing a role.
Eventually, Mr Ashwood cleared his throat and straightened. He turned to face Mr Hemming, who in a wild fit of temper had swiped the pile of books off his desk onto the floor.
“I think it’s obvious to anyone watching, we are desperate to wed,” Mr Ashwood said, his voice echoing the intense longing still thrumming through her veins.
Mr Hemming stood rigid, his fists balled at his sides. His face was so red with rage he looked ready to explode. A feral growl rumbled in the back of his throat.
“Are you saying our little interludes meant nothing to you?” Mr Hemming snarled.
How could a man be so misguided?
“Sir, ours was—and always has been—a business arrangement. Any breach of propriety stemmed from false belief.” It was the first time she had spoken so openly. Having Mr Ashwood at her side gave her the confidence to speak her mind. “I am in love with Mr Ashwood and plan to marry him.”
Mr Ashwood captured her hand and brought it to his lips.
Oh, the sooner this meeting was over, the better. Whenever he touched her intimately, her knees practically buckled.
Mr Hemming’s face contorted into an ugly grimace. “It will be nigh on impossible to find someone willing to publish your work. And certainly not for the generous sum we agreed.”
It was Mr Ashwood’s turn to laugh. “The Blood Pendant outsold all other works of fiction published last year. Besides, Miss Dunn has secured another publisher, though she certainly won’t need the money when she marries me.”
“Ah! So that’s it!” The publisher wagged his finger. “Don’t you see? He will want to control you once you’re wed. This gentleman is only pretending to show an interest in your work, whereas I have the utmost respect for your creative talents.”
Eva had feared Mr Hemming’s manner bordered on obsessive.
Now she knew it was true.
“Mr Ashwood has nothing but my best interests at heart,” Eva replied. “And our last misunderstanding was a step too far.”
In a fit of frustration, Mr Hemming thrust his hands through his generous mop of brown hair. “Madam, a man cannot help but follow the signs. Do you not admit to being too free with your compliments?”
Anger surfaced. She was about to fire a retort, but Mr Ashwood dropped her hand and stepped forward.
With wide, uncertain eyes, Mr Hemming shuffled back until his legs hit the sofa. “Stay back, sir, else I shall call my clerk.” He lost his footing and collapsed onto the padded seat.
Mr Ashwood towered over the quivering milksop. “If you don’t like it, Hemming, if you feel you’ve suffered some slight, then call me out.”
The coward’s face turned ashen.
“No?” Mr Ashwood continued. “A wise decision because you would be dead before you pulled the trigger. Indeed, speak ill of Miss Dunn to anyone, harass her in the despicable manner you have of late, then honour be damned. I shall drag you from this office and force a pistol into your clammy hand.”
Mr Ashwood straightened.
The urge to add a threat of her own bubbled in Eva’s chest. She charged forward. “And if I discover you sent the blackmail note to intimidate me, I shall pass the evidence to the magistrate at Bow Street. Do you hear?”
Mr Ashwood slipped his arm around her waist and said, “Come, we have wasted enough time here. Let us away.”
As always, Eva could not get out of the office quick enough.
They moved towards the door, but Mr Ashwood turned on his heel. “Perhaps you should have your clerk write your obituary, Hemming. I have a strange suspicion you’re going to need it.”
Chapter 7
What the devil was wrong with him?
Noah was a logical man, a sensible man, not a boy with uncontrollable urges. A violent threat would have been enough to silence Hemming. And yet the need to taste Miss Dunn’s lips, the need to stake his claim, had burned fiercely in his chest.
Damnation!
Even as they rattled along in the carriage—when he should have been planning which problem to tackle next—he thought about pulling her into his lap and ravaging her senseless.
And why in blazes had he spoken of marriage?
Dangle the bait, he’d said, not offer himself up as the sacrificial lamb.
Noah relaxed back in the seat and considered the lady sitting opposite. Her lips were pulled as tight as a miser’s purse strings. She had barely spoken since leaving her publisher’s office. Numerous times he had caught her studying him intently. Now, sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, she struggled to meet his gaze.
He should say something, something to banish the tension.
“You played the role well,” he said, frustration giving way to a sinful smile. Indeed, she had played the role too damn well. Miss Dunn tasted divine. Sweet like nectar. “Forgive me for overstepping the bounds of propriety, but your publisher is a little more than misguided.”
There. Did
that not sound like a reasonable explanation?
Miss Dunn looked at him. “You might have warned me that acting amounted to more than telling a few lies.”
He could not argue. He had taken a shocking liberty. Made it impossible for her to say no and still maintain their story. Did that not make him as wicked as Hemming?
“Please accept my sincere apology. I never meant to cause you distress. You have my word it won’t happen again.”
Disappointment sank like a brick to the pit of his stomach. Cole was right. Miss Dunn had worked her way under his skin. Putting distance between them was the only solution to this inexplicable attraction.
Her gaze softened. “Thank you, but I must apologise, too. I—I doubt you’ve had to kiss a woman so lacking in experience.” Obvious embarrassment had her nibbling her lip. “Though I suppose Mr Hemming was convinced.”
It was her lack of experience, her purity of mind and soul, that made it a kiss to remember. How could he explain that one small sip of her sweetness had fired a passion in him that had barely reached a simmer in recent years? Oh, he could have had her panting and writhing, had her stripping off his clothes in a mad frenzy. Had her begging for his touch.
“Freeing you from that pompous letch is all that matters. It took effort not to force my fist down his arrogant throat.”
Miss Dunn smiled. “I would have offered no objection. Though I’d rather you didn’t exert yourself on my account. Besides, your threats seemed to do the trick.”
Had they? Time would tell.
A slight sense of trepidation surfaced. “Hemming thinks he’s in love with you, but he’s mistaken. If he truly loved you, he would not have abused you in such a cruel fashion.”
Perhaps he should wait for the publisher to leave his office tonight and remind him how to treat a lady. All in the name of reform, of course.
“No,” she mused. “I suspect love requires an element of sacrifice.” Her expression changed abruptly from contentment to shock. “You don’t think Mr Hemming will retaliate? Cause problems to prevent us from marrying?”
Marrying? She made the ruse sound plausible.
“It’s a possibility.” Noah could not lie, and she should be prepared for any eventuality. “If Hemming sent the blackmail note, he might seek to manipulate you. We’ve set the trap. Now we must wait and see if he nibbles the bait. I shall have a man keep track of his movements. Have another watch your house in case Hemming should call.”
The flash of fear in her eyes made his heart lurch.
“I have no issue if he makes a house call,” she said despite swallowing numerous times. “I just don’t want to be alone with him in his office.”
“I would avoid all contact for the foreseeable future.”
The carriage rattled to a halt outside her home in Brownlow Street. Again, the comings and goings at the hospital drew his attention. A woman pushing a perambulator had stopped at the entrance while a matron cooed over the infant.
“Living across from the hospital must remind you of your poor friend’s plight,” he said. “It must take its toll.”
Her strained smile and watery eyes revealed an inner torment.
“Perhaps your brother grew tired of the reminder and has sought refuge elsewhere for a time,” Noah added. He didn’t necessarily believe that. Indeed, he would visit the mortuary before returning to Hart Street and examine those bodies dragged from the river.
“Howard constantly complains about the noise from the hospital. But then he complains about everything, money mostly.”
She was best rid of the rogue, in Noah’s opinion.
The thought of Howard Dunn’s demise prompted him to say, “On the subject of your brother’s recklessness with money, I must convey the full extent of his debts.” But how did he tell her about Manning without scaring her half to death? “He’s in the mire. Deeper than you suspect.”
“How deep?” Mild panic pervaded her tone.
“He owes twelve thousand pounds to various creditors.”
“Twelve thousand?” Her mouth fell open. “The fool.”
“He borrowed from a notorious moneylender.” Noah paused, overcome with the sudden suspicion the cad was already buried in a shallow grave. “And from men who will most likely beat him to death if he fails to pay.”
“He deserves nothing less,” she said, though her face grew pale, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Know that I will … that the Order will do everything in their power to see this matter right.”
She nodded. “I have a lot to thank you for, Mr Ashwood. And while we’re discussing money, I hope you understand why I must repay my debt in instalments.”
“Your debt?”
Her shoulders sagged. “The hundred pounds you gave to Mr Hemming.”
“It was not a loan, Miss Dunn. We are permitted to claim expenses when dealing with a case.” Noah briefly explained Lucius Daventry’s role as master of the Order. He could hardly say that he’d paid the publisher from his personal funds.
She seemed disappointed that he was not solely responsible for the generous gesture. Hell, Daventry would never have parted with such an extortionate sum. Not when Hemming was guilty of nothing but having wandering hands and amorous intentions.
“I cannot accept Mr Daventry’s charity.” She shook her head numerous times to make her point. “I assume some people who seek your help are penniless. My circumstances are far better than most. No. Please explain to Mr Daventry that I will repay the debt as soon as reasonably possible.”
Noah nodded and smiled while fighting the urge to kiss the sadness from her downturned lips.
“My publisher is out of town for a few days though he has agreed to see you upon his return. Based on previous sales, I’m sure your current work in progress will be of interest to him.”
Her pained smile said something was amiss. “Thank you, Mr Ashwood. You have been most helpful. Inspiration is a little slow at the moment, but I’m confident things will improve. And I can always take work at the hospital in the interim.”
The structured speech hid a wealth of torment. He would lay odds she had not written a word since the shameful situation with Miss Swales. And yet to survive, she would place herself in a hospital full of tragic stories and crying infants—a constant reminder of her brother’s failings.
Damn the devil.
Noah rubbed his jaw and unleashed another silent curse. He should be solving the mystery of her missing brother, not worrying about healing Miss Dunn’s wounded heart.
“I wonder, might I have the blackmail note to examine?” he said, attempting to focus. “Do you have a sample of Mr Hemming’s writing and that of your brother’s?”
“Yes, I have both. But if you’re trying to identify the sender, I have already concluded neither man wrote the note. Of course, that doesn’t mean someone else didn’t write it on their behalf.”
Based on his last case, he believed the villain would rather work to disguise his penmanship than take a partner in crime. “Still, I would like to be sure before moving to other lines of enquiry.”
“Then I shall find anything pertinent to the case and have my footman deliver it to you in Hart Street.”
It occurred to him there was another suspect not yet named. “And who is the friend who knows you write under a pseudonym?”
A veil of sadness fell over her features, and he knew the person’s identity before she said, “Clara Swales.”
“Of course. Lord Benham’s sister.”
“Though Clara is not a suspect.”
“No.” Not unless she was looking for funds to escape her Northumberland prison. Not unless Howard Dunn had put her up to the task.
“Either way, we should add another name to the list—Lord Benham’s. He may have inadvertently stumbled upon your secret.” Perhaps the viscount sent the note to prevent Miss Dunn from visiting Northumberland. Perhaps he sent it to frighten her as a means of revenge.
A heavy silence descend
ed.
It was time to depart, though he found it impossible to leave.
He recalled the fantasy she had created to appease the publisher. An afternoon spent stretched on a blanket in the park while he read poems. An afternoon relaxing in the sunshine, picnicking, drinking wine, more passionate kissing.
The image spoke to him deeply.
So deeply, he feared he was losing his grasp on reality.
“Now you have dealt with the matter of my stolen undergarments and released me from Mr Hemming’s clutches,” Miss Dunn said, her sweet voice drawing him from his reverie, “what do you propose we do now?”
Oh, he had plenty of ideas as to how they might fill their time.
“I suggest you think carefully about the night of the attack. Did the thug say anything? Is there a reason your boots might hold some particular value to him?”
One reason sprang to mind, and he would give the matter his consideration upon his return to Hart Street.
Miss Dunn swallowed deeply. “So, you don’t need me to accompany you on another outing?”
“Not at present.” Though he wished he could invent another appointment, wished to banish the loneliness from her voice. “But while I wait for your publisher to pounce, I intend to question Lord Benham. After all, the man has a motive for murder.”
She clutched her throat as if she were Benham’s next target. “Howard deserves to pay for his crimes, but I pray Lord Benham has not gone too far. Vengeance will not heal the heartache. And how can a man reform if he’s dead?”
Reform?
“Men like your brother are beyond redemption,” he said, attempting to keep his contempt for Howard Dunn from his voice.
“Of course they are, but one must not give up hope.”
“No. Hope is all we have.”
After another brief silence, Miss Dunn straightened her bonnet. “Well, I am sure you will keep me informed of your progress, and I shall arrange to have the information you require sent to Hart Street.”
“Excellent.”
They sat there … waiting … stalling. Noah reached for the door handle a second after Miss Dunn leant forward and wrapped her fingers around the metal.