‘Lizzie. I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Obviously not,’ his sister said archly. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘You know perfectly well that you are, else you would have allowed my man to show you into the parlour. Deborah, this is my sister, Mrs Alex Murray. Lizzie, this is Lady Kinsail, the Dowager Lady Kinsail.’
‘How do you do?’ Lizzie dropped a polite curtsy. Widow, she was thinking. Kinsail. There was a scandal there. I must ask Alex. Not young. Twenty-six, seven? Not beautiful, but memorable. ‘I had no idea you and my brother were acquainted. He goes so little into society, I’m surprised that your paths have crossed.’
‘How do you do? I would have known you for Elliot’s—Mr Marchmont’s sister without an introduction. You are very like.’ Deborah eyed Lizzie’s carriage dress enviously. Cherry red, with a deep border of black beading, a short velvet jacket with the tightly fitted sleeves finished with the same pattern of beadwork, it was very elegant. And its owner was very perceptive, she thought, tilting her chin under that lady’s scrutiny. ‘Elliot and I met through my late husband’s cousin,’ she said. ‘Lord Kinsail—the current Lord Kinsail, that is—was of some assistance in a matter concerning the army.’ She threw a mischievous look over her shoulder at Elliot, who was ushering them into the parlour, and regretted it instantly when it was intercepted by Lizzie, who was obviously just as sharp as her brother.
‘I see.’
‘I doubt it,’ Elliot said drily. ‘I suppose you’ll want tea? I’ll just go and see to it.’
‘Lovely,’ Lizzie said, sinking into her favourite sofa and patting the cushion beside her, giving Deborah no option but to sit at her side. ‘I don’t know if Elliot’s told you, but I’m expecting and it’s doing horrible things to me. My ankles swell. Do you have children, Lady Kinsail?’
‘No. No I was not—we were not—no.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. And it’s Deborah, please.’
‘Lord, I hope I’m not going to turn into one of those bores who can talk of nothing but babies.’ Lizzie cast aside her bonnet with the carelessness of one who had several more. ‘I wasn’t the least bit interested in them until I started increasing; now I find that little else interests me. It’s as well I’m going to Scotland next month, else my reputation for wit will be quite spoiled. What was it that you and my brother were so anxious to hide from me?’
Deborah smiled. ‘Your wits have not wandered very far yet. Why don’t you ask Elliot?’
‘Because he’ll tell me to mind my own business, only he won’t do it as politely as you. How long have you known him?’
‘Not long.’
‘He’s kept you very quiet.’
‘Perhaps because there’s nothing to tell.’
Lizzie chuckled. ‘Oh, have it your own way. I would not have brooked any interference in my courtship
either.’
‘Mrs Murray…’
‘Lizzie.’
‘We are not—there is nothing of that nature between us. We are merely engaged upon a business venture.’
‘Do you really think that? No, for you are blushing. This, let me tell you, is excellent news, for now I will be able to hide myself in the wilds of Scotland without worrying about my brother.’
‘You must not be thinking…’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I shan’t say anything,’ Lizzie said airily, confining the list of eligibles she had drawn up in her head to the virtual flames. ‘Besides, I would not dream of playing the matchmaker for Elliot,’ she added, with a fine disregard for the truth.
‘I doubt your brother needs anyone’s help in attracting female company,’ Deborah said.
‘Now who is digging? There has been no one since he returned to England, so far as I am aware. Does that answer your question?’
‘What question is that?’ Elliot asked, kicking a small table into position in front of his sister and placing the tea tray upon it.’
‘Deborah was asking me about Scotland,’ Lizzie said.
He looked sceptical, but chose not to pursue the matter. Over tea, he watched with interest as Lizzie kept up a polite stream of chatter and gossip. Either Deborah was unaware of the lures being cast, or she was too careful to rise to them, for she expressed nothing other than polite interest in the names Lizzie dropped and claimed not a single one of her impressive list as acquaintances. His sister was baffled and Elliot was amused to see her so, even more amused when Deborah declined the invitation to call.
‘I would not dream of intruding, when you will be so busy with your preparations,’ she said politely but firmly, equally politely and firmly taking her leave alone.
‘Don’t hate her,’ Elliot said, showing Deborah out. ‘She does not mean to be interfering.’
Deborah chuckled. ‘She does, but since she does it only because she cares for you, I could not possibly be offended. I liked her.’
‘I thought you would,’ Elliot said with satisfaction, though he knew Deborah well enough now not to press Lizzie’s invitation further. ‘Until tomorrow night, then? If you are sure?’
‘You know I am.’ Deborah’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘Until tomorrow, Elliot.’
She surprised him, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. It was over before he could react and she was gone, tripping lightly down the steps in her faded gown and practical shawl, before he could stop her. Elliot watched her walking across the square. He could tell from the angle of her bonnet that she had her chin up—that haughty, touch-me-not look she used to repel strangers. Her walk was not seductive, but it was very feminine. Those long legs of hers covered the distance quickly.
‘I like her.’ Lizzie joined him on the step. She had put on her bonnet and was drawing on her gloves while signalling to her coachman, who had been walking the horses round the square. ‘She’s very unusual.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sad, too. There was gossip about the husband, you know.’
‘What?’
‘I wish I could remember. Do you want me to find out?’
‘She’ll tell me if she wants me to know.’
Lizzie raised her brows. ‘That’s not like you.’
‘No.’
His sister threw him a look, but said nothing more.
Alone again, Elliot leafed through the plans he and Deborah had been studying. This last week had flown by. They had spent hours in each other’s company, plotting and scheming. She was more relaxed with him now, but he was under no illusions. Any edging over the line from the general to the personal made her tense. She had a caustic wit, a sharp mind, an eye for detail, a head for numbers—he knew all those things about her. She’d written stories as a child. She’d told him some of them one rainy afternoon, mocking her younger self. He had the sense not to ask her outright what had changed her so dramatically, but she had seen the question in his eyes, clamming up straight away, refusing to recount any more.
Elliot began methodically to tear up the plans and feed them into the fire. They had served their purpose. Deborah’s handwriting was surprisingly bad, an almost illegible scrawl. ‘As if your pen cannot keep up with your thoughts,’ Elliot had teased her when he’d first seen it and she’d laughed at that, telling him that was exactly it. ‘I am amazed that Mr Freyworth can read it sometimes,’ she’d said. A rare slip, which Elliot had pounced upon, secreted and used. It had not exactly been taxing, tracing her publisher from that snippet. More difficult was identifying her nom de plume, but he had his sources. He always had his sources.
‘Though I wish to hell I didn’t have to use them,’ he exclaimed, casting the last of the paper into the flames. ‘Why does she have to be so secretive?’
Why could she not trust him? Why would she not, just once, admit that she wanted to kiss him? Because he knew she did. Attraction crackled like lightning between them all the time, driving him mad with frustration, but he would not surrender to it until she did, he would not! A man had hi
s pride. Though he was tempted, on occasion, to consign his to the flames with the plans.
The simple fact is that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. It was because she was so stubborn, he told himself, that’s all it was. Elliot used the poker to tamp down the fire. That wasn’t all, he knew that, but it was all he was prepared to admit. He had more important matters to focus on right now. Like a housebreaking.
And after that? Elliot placed a fire screen over the hearth. He would think about after that when it happened.
* * *
It was twelve miles or more to Richmond. In the dark, travelling across country when they could, in an effort to avoid being noticed, Deborah focused all her attention on simply enjoying the ride. It was the one thing which made her visits to Kinsail Manor tolerable, having the run of the stables, the one privilege she was granted, and one of the things she missed most in London. Tonight, the freedom of her attire and the illicitness of their purpose added a delightful frisson to the shivering awareness of the man who rode beside her. Cloaked by the dark, she could admit to herself that Elliot’s very presence was arousing. Her blood fizzed and sang in her veins. Her heart beat in time to the thunder of her horse’s hooves. She felt truly alive.
Beside her, Elliot felt his mood swing between exhilaration and trepidation. He was as certain as it was possible to be that there were no flaws in their plan. A straightforward break-in, an old-fashioned safe, servants’ quarters located in a remote attic, a proprietor forced to retire from Government service because even with the aid of his ear trumpet he could hear nothing quieter than a bellow. Such a simple, failsafe task, that under other circumstances he would have scorned it for the lack of challenge.
As they made their way around the perimeter of a field hedged with hawthorn, Deborah’s horse snickered as a rodent of some sort ran across their path. She held it effortlessly back from bolting and Elliot managed to restrain himself just in time from laying his hand on her bridle. She was a consummate horsewoman. When he’d thrown her into the saddle tonight, he’d seen that tinge of anticipation in her face, sensed that edginess in her which was so familiar to him.
His response had been a stab of nerves. Normally, he did not consider failure. Tonight it worried him, the risks he was taking, the safety of the woman by his side, who never gave it a thought. The field gave way to a narrow lane. Soft and muddy from the recent rains, it muffled the sound of their hooves. ‘Five minutes and we’ll be at the main gate,’ Elliot said softly. ‘You remember all?’
He caught the flash of Deborah’s smile in the gloom. Quietly, but succinctly, she recited the plan. Just before they reached the gatehouse, they came to a halt and dismounted, tethering the horses in the shelter of a line of poplars. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in my suggesting you wait here?’ he said.
Deborah shrugged out of her greatcoat. Her heart was beginning to beat more erratically. Her excitement had the jagged edge of fear. She’d forgotten that from the first time, but she shook her head at Elliot as she threw her coat over her horse. ‘I think you know the answer to that question.’
He caught her hand. Like him, she’d taken off her gloves. Her fingers fluttered in his. ‘Deborah, you must promise me, if we are discovered…’
‘I am to run as fast as I can without waiting for you,’ she said. ‘I’ve already promised. What’s wrong—surely the infallible Peacock is not nervous? You said yourself that this was a simple job.’
‘I know what I said. But if any harm came to you…’ His hands tightened on hers.
‘It won’t.’ Without thinking, she stood on her tiptoes in her topboots and kissed him on the cheek. His skin was cool. He tasted of fresh air and sweat. Alerted by the sharp intake of his breath, she realised her lips had lingered a fraction of a second too long, her body had strayed just a fraction of an inch too close. Awareness flashed, brief as a shooting star. She stepped away. The crack of a branch snapping under her boot made her start, and her start made her realise that fear had the edge. She took a deep breath. Focus. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Focus.
Elliot consulted his pocketwatch. Deborah crammed her hat down over her hair. His expression was remote, closed, intimidating. Intent. Her fear ebbed. ‘If things go to plan, we should be back here in under an hour,’ he said.
‘They will,’ Deborah replied, gathering up her courage like petticoats around her. ‘Stop worrying.’
* * *
He hadn’t counted on the dog. How had he missed its existence? Though he’d hardly call the thing a dog. To Elliot’s eyes it looked like a rug with paws. In fact, were it not for the high-pitched yapping nose which emitted from somewhere under the heavy fringe of fur, it would have been impossible to tell which end of the creature was which. It came at them from its bed in front of the fire, which had long since died, in the library which also contained the safe. Elliot cursed and made a lunge for it, then cursed again as a pair of extremely sharp incisors sank into the fleshy pad of his thumb. It was Deborah who managed to catch the incensed canine, smothering its yelps with her hat, hugging the wriggling body tight against her, muttering soothing clucking noises that, to Elliot’s astonishment, had some sort of mesmerising effect.
One minute, two minutes, three. He counted tensely as they waited, all three of them, behind the window curtains. On five, they moved. His heart was hammering. He dropped a pick. The soft tinkle of thin wire on the boards made Deborah glance towards the door through which they had come. She was struggling with the dog. The lock gave way with a soft click. Though he never hurried, he hurried now, raking through the contents, finding the neat little box of lacquered wood. A quick check inside, then it was tucked into his pocket and they were back out in the long hallway. By the light of the lamp which burned there, he caught a glimpse of Deborah’s face. She was biting down on a laugh. Down the stairs, through the baize door, into the kitchens they fled, the dog loosed from her hat now, making energetic attempts to free itself, whimpering and yelping.
‘I can’t hold it much longer,’ Deborah said as they reached the basement window. ‘I’m sorry, Elliot, it’s more ferret than canine.’ She was shaking with muffled laughter now. ‘What are we going to do, kidnap it? I doubt anyone in their right mind would pay a ransom for this thing.’
‘We’ll take it with us part of the way, then release it. It will find its own way back, don’t worry.’ Elliot climbed out of the window, jumped the three feet to the ground, then held up his hands. The dog, astonished into temporary silence, flopped into them and then bit him again. He cursed under his breath. Two long legs—he tried not to look at those long legs—and Deborah arrived beside him. ‘Run,’ he said, taking her hand.
They ran at full tilt. At some point before they reached the gate, the dog escaped and fled in the opposite direction, back towards the house, making enough noise to raise the dead. Deborah was flagging, but Elliot pulled her on remorselessly, throwing her into the saddle almost before she had her greatcoat around her. She was off before he had gathered up his own reins, down the path at speed, careless of ruts and rabbit holes.
* * *
They were halfway back to town, travelling along the river, before he felt it was safe enough to slow down. Great clouds of steam rose from the flanks of the horses. He could see Deborah’s breath. His own chest was heaving. Elliot reined in beside a small boathouse. ‘We’ll let the horses rest here awhile.’
Deborah dismounted fluidly. ‘You’d have thought the hounds of hell were after us,’ she said, laughing between trying to catch her breath. Her hat was gone. Her hair rippled like moonlight on the dark wool of her greatcoat.
‘I wouldn’t call that damned creature a hound, but it was definitely hellish,’ Elliot replied, looking ruefully at his bitten thumb.
‘So the Peacock is not so infallible after all.’
Her voice was teasing. She was smiling, quite transformed from her daytime self. Elliot felt as Pygmalion must have done, seeing Galatea come to life. �
��Flawed,’ he said, clutching theatrically at his chest. ‘Alack, my feet of clay have been discovered.’
‘I think we both have feet of clay.’ Deborah looked ruefully down at her mud-clogged boots. A soft breeze fluttered through the willow which wept into the deceptively still waters of the Thames, making her shiver, for she had once again thrown her coat over her horse.
‘We can wait in here while the horses cool down.’
Elliot pushed open the door of the boathouse. Inside, it smelled of oiled rope, dried sailcloth and damp wood. He lit the lantern which he always carried with him. The flame cast a soft glow around the narrow building. Through the slats in the wooden floor, they could hear the water shushing against the stilts. The boat, some sort of decorative barge, took up most of the available space. He stepped into it and held out his hand to help her.
Deborah climbed over the wooden edge, sitting down next to him on the cushioned seat built into the stern and it was there, suddenly and indisputably, between them. Awareness. The air resonated with it. Awareness of the kisses they had been avoiding, the desire they had been ignoring. Everything seemed sharpened by it. The smell of the boathouse, the sound of the water, her breathing, her heartbeat, her pulses. Her skin prickled with longing. She had to make a physical effort to keep herself from creeping towards Elliot, close enough to touch. ‘May I see our spoils?’ Even her voice sounded strange.
The box he placed on his knee was small, like a cigar box, only ornately lacquered, inlaid with gold. ‘Japanese,’ Elliot said. Deborah’s breeches were stretched tight across her legs. Her knee was inches away from his. He concentrated on the box, fiddling with his most delicate pick at the lock, trying not to think about the way her presence intoxicated him. He hadn’t planned this, had conscientiously avoided even thinking about afterwards, but now here it was, and it was the same—more—than that first time. Was he imagining that she felt it too, simply because it was what he wanted?
Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 12