“A locked cabinet,” Jack interjected helpfully.
Spencer glowered at the boy. “Yes, locked. So how did you get into it, pray tell?”
Jack swallowed hard, his eyes growing huge.
“Oh, stop trying to change the subject,” Abby put in. “Face it, Spencer, you’ve been found out. The great undersecretary of the Home Office has a collection of peep-show boxes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed of it.” He couldn’t believe he was standing here defending his boxes to a lot of children and his sham wife. He added sullenly, “And it’s not a collection. It’s a random assortment—”
“You might as well give up, Lord Ravenswood,” Lady Clara put in, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Abby’s right—you’ve been found out.”
“And maybe if the children ask nicely,” Abby added, “his lordship will let them look inside his special boxes. He might even show them how they work.”
As a children’s chorus of pleas filled the air, at first tentative, then more querulous, Spencer swung his gaze to her in alarm. Abby watched him steadily, those pretty green eyes demanding something from him. Bloody hell, did she actually expect him to invite swarms of children to torment him?
Clearly she did. And the plaintive cries of Clara’s charges only made it worse—they had so little, and denying them something so small when it would give them such great pleasure would be churlish indeed. Even he could not be that cruel.
But he’d make Abby pay for putting him in this situation in the first place. Oh, yes, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer.
Somehow he managed to keep his voice calm. “I’d be happy to demonstrate the boxes to the children.”
His reward was a shout of hurrah from the little imps—and a hopeful smile from Abby. Both nearly made him retract his promise. Instead, he gritted his teeth and threw himself into hell.
The next hour passed in a daze. Children bombarded him everywhere, at first wary and aloof, but soon creeping under his guard. They began by looking over his shoulder as he crouched to show a small doe-eyed boy how the peep-show box with the lake scene worked. Soon they were tugging at his arm to pull him over to this box or that and then slipping tiny, fragile hands in his, ignoring how he stiffened.
But the final insult came when Spencer retreated to his favorite bergère chair to escape the onslaught. The gap-toothed urchin named Lily who’d earlier bemoaned the loss of the sausages had the audacity to follow him and clamber onto his knee.
Eyes solemn, she held out one of Spencer’s boxes. “I can’t make it work, sir. I look through it, but I don’t see nuthin’.” Her lower lip trembled as if she were on the verge of tears, and Spencer felt his gut twist.
Just what he needed to make this night a complete disaster—a sobbing child. A sobbing cute child, all riotous black curls and soulful blue eyes. Devil take it.
“You see, Lily—” Reluctantly, he took the box from the girl, who’d been aiming it toward his chest, and turned it so the other end faced the fireplace to his left. “You have to tilt the box toward the light. It has to have light behind it—from the candle or the fire.”
He shifted her so the girl could look through the peephole, and in an instant the child’s expression changed from despair to surprised pleasure.
“It’s a horse race.” Lily glanced up at Spencer. “Do them horses move?”
He couldn’t suppress a smile. “Watch,” he said, and reached beneath the box with both hands to clasp the strings this particular box contained.
When he pulled in alternate rhythms, making the horses bob up and down inside, Lily crowed with delight. “They’re off! Look at ’em go!”
A strangled laugh eked past the lump in Spencer’s throat. “It’s not as good as a real race, but at least you can control who wins.”
Watching Lily center all her energy on a silly trifle of an image proved a sublime torture. If not for his war injury, this might have been his own daughter sitting on his lap, holding the peep-show box with the irreverent casualness of the young and foolish.
Pain scoured his soul, and his eyes sought out the woman bent on upsetting his life. Abby beamed at him. She probably thought she was doing him a favor, forcing him to face what he professed to dislike so he could see it wasn’t so bad after all. Like a wild rose, she was overgrowing his house and his life.
First there was her “playing” and then her appearance in his bedchamber and now the children. It was almost as if—
An uneasy suspicion suddenly hit him. Could she possibly think to…No, surely she knew better. He’d made his wishes on that score perfectly clear.
Lily glanced up at him. “Do you got any boxes that show stuff for girls?” she asked hopefully. “You know, like…like fancy dances and ladies in coaches?”
“I’m afraid not.” But there were such things. “You like ladies in coaches, do you?”
“Ever so much.” She smiled timidly. “’Specially when they’re as nice as Lady Clara and Lady Ravenswood. Lady Ravenswood smells like Mama used to, all sweet-like.”
“Used to?”
Tears welled in her eyes, and he cursed himself for even raising the subject. “Mama went to live in heaven. I don’t got a daddy. He went to sea afore I was born.”
The lump in Spencer’s throat thickened. “Who took care of you before you went to live at the Home?”
She wiped her tears away with one small fist. “My uncle. But he kept sending me out to steal.” A troubled frown creased her smooth brow. “I don’t like stealing.”
“Good for you,” he said fiercely. “You just keep obeying Lady Clara, and you won’t have to steal ever again.” He made a mental note to double his donation to the Home this year.
The unbelievably cute thing snuggled closer to him. “I like you. You’re not so mean as all the boys say.” She thrust her nose into his cravat and inhaled. “And you smell sweet-like, too. Just like Lady Ravenswood.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “Do I?”
“Sure you do.” She shoved his cravat up in his face. “See?”
To humor her, he sniffed. Then sniffed again. That was Abby’s scent on his cravat, all right. But he hadn’t put it there. His eyes narrowed.
McFee entered the drawing room to announce, “Dinner is served.” But the butler’s reserve slipped when he caught sight of Spencer with Lily perched on his lap. “Er…my lord…do you wish…that is…I have your coat and hat ready if your lordship still intends to go to your club.”
Lily gazed up at Spencer. “You don’t want to be going to no club, sir. There’s lemon ices for dessert here. I bet that club don’t have lemon ices.”
“Lemon ices?” Spencer shot Abby a telling look. Did she plan to spend him into debtor’s prison as well as plague him with children? “How did you find lemon ices at this time of year?”
She looked nervous. “Um…Mr. McFee helped me.”
When Spencer arched one brow at his butler, the man went rigid. “Her ladyship asked what dessert would be most calculated to appeal to children, and I suggested lemon ices. I did not worry about the difficulty of obtaining it.”
“Or the expense,” Spencer said dryly.
As both his sham wife and his butler colored, Spencer shook his head, feeling despair grip him. They had him trapped, all of them. If not for the hopeful expression on Lily’s face, he would have wished them to the devil and gone off to the club anyway.
But he hadn’t sunk so low that he would hurt the feelings of a little girl who couldn’t know how her every winsome smile inflicted fresh pain.
Spencer gazed solemnly down at Lily. “Well then, poppet, I think you’re right. I wouldn’t want to miss lemon ices for dessert. Especially when my wife and my servants went to such great lengths to get it.”
Abby was all smiles again. Oh, yes, the woman was certainly up to something. He’d play along for now, but later he would get the truth out of her. And if it was what he thought it was, she wouldn’t get away w
ith thwarting him. Not anymore.
Chapter 16
Never question what happens behind locked doors.
Suggestions for the Stoic Servant
Abby had relaxed while Spencer was with the children, but now that they were sitting down to dinner, she tensed up again. Spencer’s brooding glances unnerved her, making it hard for her to breathe. And when the footmen brought the soup around, she forgot to breathe entirely.
Especially when Spencer stared down at his bowl and asked, “What’s this?”
She licked her dry lips. “It’s…um…clam chowder. An American dish. I thought you might like it. I-I mean, since you like shellfish and all.”
His gaze shot to hers as he dipped his spoon. “How did you know that?”
“The servants,” she said noncommittally, watching as he tasted the soup.
The children were skeptical enough of the unfamiliar dish to wait until he pronounced judgment. When he realized every eye was on him, Spencer slowed his movements. He took another spoonful, but this time he swished it around in his mouth and looked deep in thought as he swallowed.
When he merely dipped his spoon again, she’d had enough. “Well?” she snapped. “What do you think?”
He ate calmly. “About what?”
“The soup, of course!”
“Oh, the soup.” When Abby glared at him, he relented. “It’s quite good, Abby. Best soup I’ve ever tasted.” He arched an eyebrow at the children. “Don’t you all think so?”
That was enough to have them digging in. Soon they were exclaiming over it, eager to please both their hosts. And Spencer’s smug smile made her want to throw something at him.
Still, the rest of dinner went very well. Spencer even surprised her with his deft ability to entertain. He regaled the children with stories about visiting Italy and floating in a Venetian gondola alongside the swans.
When Jack sullenly proclaimed he didn’t like swans, Spencer said, “I know what you mean. God only gave swans beauty to hide their rank stupidity.”
The children squealed with laughter.
They’d just finished the lemon ices when Spencer blotted his mouth with a napkin and stood. “I regret that I must leave you, but I’ve work to do.” He slanted an enigmatic glance at Abby. “After our guests have gone, my dear, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop in at my study.”
“Certainly,” she said, though something in his manner struck her as odd.
Clara had noticed, too, for later when she was leaving with the children, she said, “You don’t think Lord Ravenswood is still angry about the children being here, do you?”
“Of course not. He was perfectly nice to them. I’m sure he just wants to go over tomorrow’s plans with me.”
But once everybody was gone and she headed off toward his study, her unease returned. She didn’t know why, but it wouldn’t abate.
When she reached Spencer’s study to find the door ajar, she halted. Her mouth went dry as she peeked in to find him standing between the fire and his massive mahogany desk in his shirtsleeves.
Spencer in shirtsleeves—how strange. She scanned the room until she found his coat and waistcoat slung over an armchair. But he’d draped his cravat over his shoulder like a soldier’s colors, and that gave her pause, too. He rarely dressed casually outside his bedchamber.
A tendril of foreboding crept around her heart, but she willed herself to ignore it. She was being silly. She had nothing to fear from him. What if he did dress casually in his own home? He had a right to walk around in his shirtsleeves if he pleased.
Even if he’d never done so before.
Studying him through the cracked-open door, she sought some sign of his mood. But though his profile was to her, she could tell little from the carved line of his jaw, the unsmiling mouth. He merely looked pensive as he swirled some dark liquor in a tumbler with one hand and balanced a peep-show box with the other.
“Come in, Abby,” he said without turning around.
She started. Her blood inexplicably clamoring in her ears, she pushed the door all the way open and walked in.
Yet he still didn’t face her. “Close the door behind you and lock it.”
The clipped command stirred up butterflies in her belly. Maybe she had something to fear after all. “Why?”
“I don’t want the servants barging in on our private discussion.”
“Oh.” That made sense, yet her hands trembled as she shoved the door closed and turned the key.
When she faced him, he’d set his empty glass on the desk next to him and was turning the peep-show box over in his hands. Firelight sketched unholy shadows over his profile, rousing her sense of unease to new heights.
As always, she met her fears boldly. “You said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes.” He kept staring down at the painted box. “You like children, don’t you?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
He glanced to her, one eyebrow raised.
“And don’t try to tell me again that you don’t,” she went on quickly. “I won’t believe it. I saw you with those children. You were compassionate and entertaining—”
“I can put a good face on things when I need to,” he bit out.
“Hogwash. You could have gone to your club any time you wanted. But you didn’t. And no man who hates children would have told them jokes and tolerated them climbing all over him.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You enjoyed yourself with those little darlings, admit it.”
Slowly he turned toward her, still holding the box as his steely eyes searched her face. “Is that why you brought them here? To find out if I could tolerate children?”
The butterflies fluttered madly in her belly. “No! I-I needed them to help me.”
“And that’s why you planned an entire dinner for them. One that included dishes meant only for them as well as dishes meant only for me.”
That was harder to explain away. “I…um…merely didn’t take seriously your words about having them gone by dinner.”
It sounded lame, even to her ears. He fixed her with a disturbingly level gaze. “You had no ulterior motive for your actions, no reason beyond your aims with the perfume.”
The very fact that he asked the question gave her pause. But she wasn’t about to admit her reasons for her behavior. “Of course not,” she managed to say.
“I see.” His smile might have put her at ease if it hadn’t been so very…mysterious. It wasn’t like Spencer to be mysterious. Evasive, perhaps, or cool, but not mysterious. What in heaven’s name was he thinking?
Eyes gleaming, he held up the box. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Her pulse leaped in apprehension. Did this mean the inquisition was over? And why show her yet another peep-show box? “I don’t remember seeing that one earlier.”
“I don’t keep it with the rest. My father gave me the others when I was a boy. This one is from Nat. He found it in Paris a few years ago.”
“Oh.” She sounded like an idiot, but she couldn’t help it. His strange behavior made her very jittery.
“Come take a look,” he said, a peculiar tension in his voice.
“All right.” Crossing the Turkish carpet on shaky limbs, she held out her hand.
Instead of putting the box in it, he tugged her toward him. Turning her in his arms, he leaned against the desk and settled her between his parted thighs so her backside rested against his groin. He anchored her there with one powerful arm clamped about her waist.
Heavenly day. Was he simply trying to torture her? Or had he finally accepted the attraction he’d been fighting at every turn? And if that was the case, why now?
A thrill coursed through her to feel him thickening beneath her backside. Then he pressed a kiss into her hair, and her thrill twisted into anticipation. She didn’t care why he’d changed his mind. He was holding her and kissing her—that was enough.
He pushed the peep-show box into her hands, then bent his head to whisper. “Look
in it, Abby.”
Wondering what a peep-show box had to do with anything between them, she muttered, “Oh, all right,” and lifted it to her eye.
It look a moment for her to register the image, even though he held her facing the fire so that light shone through the back aperture. But as her gaze adjusted and the image formed in her vision, she gasped.
The scene was a bordello. Scantily clad women lay sprawled in various scandalous positions, touching themselves, being touched by men…
She jerked back from it, hot blood flooding her cheeks. “I…It’s—”
“—an erotic peep-show box. Not all of them are for children, you know.”
“Oh.”
His deft hand stroked back and forth over her belly, raising wanton shivers even beneath the layers of gown and chemise. But when his other hand began working loose the buttons of her gown at the back, she didn’t know whether to be delighted or alarmed.
“Wh-what are you doing, Spencer?” she whispered.
“I think you call it ‘playing.’” His breath warmed her neck, heated her blood.
“I thought you didn’t want us to play again,” she said warily.
“Sometimes a man can’t help himself.” He went on unfastening buttons until he had her gown completely open in the back. Taking the box from her, he set it on the table. Then he tugged her gown completely down, letting it drop with a rustle at her feet. “But then you were counting on that, weren’t you?”
Fear warred with excitement in her chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He dropped something about her neck, and only when the scent hit her did she realize it was his cravat. “You put the Mead on my cravats, didn’t you? That’s why you were in my room the other day. It took me until this evening to figure it out. When one of the girls commented on my sweet smell, I realized the scent was too strong to be simply the figment of my imagination.”
Panic clutched her chest. “Sh-she smelled your own scent on your cravats, that’s all. I know you said you don’t wear any, but—”
“James set me straight—apparently he puts scent in my shaving water. But I went up to my room after dinner and checked the freshly washed cravats. They all smell like this.” He drew the silky fabric over her nose, then let it slither to the floor. “Like you, your scent. You may as well admit it.”
Married to the Viscount Page 21