The Formidable Earl

by Sophie Barnes

  “Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”

  The question was so poignant, so unexpected in the wake of the rest of their muddled discussion, she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. Until she glanced at him and saw his eyes fixed on her with the sharpest intensity she’d ever been submitted to.

  She sucked in a breath. “I’m not—”

  “Don’t insult me by trying to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve spent the last two days deliberating over the issue, over your swift avoidance of my advance. Initially, I believed the best course of action was to try and ignore it since that was what you seemed so keen on doing. But I’ve since changed my mind.”

  He was suddenly on the bench beside her, too large and too close, too imposing by half. His masculine scent stirred her senses, his mere presence forcing an unbidden shiver to rake down her back. Her fingers itched with the need to reach out and touch him, to pull him close and allow herself to be consumed by his strength.

  “Oh God.” It was all she could say and even then the words barely managed to scrape past her lips.

  The golden center of his eyes gleamed. “Why are you so determined to stop the inevitable?”

  “I…” She shook her head, unable to lay bare her fears.

  His hand cupped her cheek. One finger stroked the edge of her jaw. A ragged breath rose from her throat. “Tell me.”

  “It’s foolish.” He was dulling her mind with his touch, addling her senses with his smell, weakening her defenses with the low vibrations of his voice.

  “I disagree.” His gaze dropped to her lips before moving lower, roving over each part of her body until she felt scorched. “I’ve been hungry since the day I clapped eyes on your beauty.” His gaze returned to her face with increased resolve burning bright in its depth. “And since you’ve refused to sate that hunger, I’ve been brought to the point of starvation, Ida. My entire body shakes at the thought of what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to bury myself in your sweetness. I’m nearly mad with it. With you. I can scarcely think of anything else.

  “Christ have mercy, I want you with a desperation I fear might kill me.” He dropped his hand, leaned back, allowed her a moment to gather her wits. “But I won’t press the issue again unless you desire the same. My respect for you is too great and besides, I’m not that sort of man. So unless you give your consent, nothing further will happen between us. I give you my word.”

  It took effort to breathe. Pressed back into the corner of the carriage and with her heart pounding like mad, Ida stared at Simon as he returned to the opposite bench. Who was this man who’d suddenly shed the considerate garb of gentlemanly respectability he always wore? He’d been transformed into an impassioned rogue, telling her things she wouldn’t have thought he’d ever dare say.

  It was shocking.

  The curtain between them and what they could be if she’d let them had been whisked aside. He’d demanded she see. And then he’d insisted she make a decision.

  “Simon, I’m not sure if—”

  “We’re here,” he said, his desire for further excuses on her part completely absent. Instead, he got out and offered his hand to help her alight. “Watch your step as you go onboard. The gangplank might be slippery.”

  Dismayed by his ability to shift gears with such remarkable speed, Ida merely nodded and accepted his escort. She couldn’t think straight at the moment, her body still on high alert from their interlude in the carriage. If only she were able to talk to Philipa about it, get her advice.

  Ida sighed. Going back to Amourette’s wouldn’t be possible. The place was probably being watched, so she had to avoid it.

  Clasping Simon’s hand for balance, she stepped down onto the deck of The Soaring Falcon.

  “Right this way,” a burly man said when Simon inquired about Captain Finnegan Murdoch. He led Simon and Ida down below deck, through a passageway, and straight to the captain’s quarters at the stern of the ship.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Simon told Murdoch as soon as he and Ida met him. The captain inclined his head and offered them each a seat at a large table on which a collection of maps and other papers were strewn about. “We’re grateful for any assistance you might be able to offer.”

  “We’ll see how helpful I can be once you’ve explained the exact nature of your visit. The note I received was vague at best.” Murdoch, who still stood, crossed to a cabinet and retrieved a large bottle. “Would either of you like a drink while we talk?”

  When Simon immediately answered in the affirmative, Murdoch glanced at Ida and arched a brow.

  Certain the drink would help put her frayed nerves back together, she nodded. “Please.”

  Murdoch smirked with a hint of approval and collected three glasses. He filled them with a clear-colored liquid that burned a path all the way to Ida’s stomach the moment she sipped it.

  “Now then,” the captain said as he took his seat on the opposite side of the table. “I believe there was some mention of a letter you’re hoping I might shed some light on?”

  “Indeed.” Ida leaned forward, aware of Simon’s assessing gaze and the fact that he, as a man, had probably expected her to let him lead the interview. “From what I’ve recently been able to gather after extensive inquiry, you delivered two important letters four years ago, one to the captain of the British fleet guarding the island of Elba and the other to the French.”

  Murdoch twisted his mouth in thought, then reached for his glass and drank. Returning the glass to the table, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes had darkened to pure black. “I don’t suppose the fact that both fleets left their positions the following day and allowed Napoleon to escape was a coincidence?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ve nothing further to say.” Murdoch gave them both a hard stare. “I’ll have my boatswain show you out.”

  “My father died because of those letters,” Ida said without moving to rise. “Whoever wrote them forged the signature along with the seals of King Louis and King George, then used him as a scapegoat.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t get involved in this mess,” Murdoch muttered.

  “You got involved when you agreed to deliver the letters,” Simon cut in.

  “And I was questioned then, too, about my involvement.”

  “By whom?”

  Murdoch’s jaw tightened. “A man I’d rather not meet again.”

  “Made you nervous, did he?” Simon’s voice was jovial, but his body was taut and ready for action. “Perhaps we should share your name with the papers – make it known that you’ve started talking about Napoleon’s escape?”

  Murdoch narrowed his gaze. “Are you threatening me?”

  Simon fixed his attention on the captain while Ida held her breath. “No, not yet. And I’d like to think I won’t have to.”

  Murdoch matched the hard glare in Simon’s eyes to perfection while holding perfectly still. “I don’t take kindly to those who try to force my hand.”

  “In that case, I would suggest not giving me a reason to do so,” Simon said. “You’re a loyal Englishman, are you not?”

  Ida glanced from one man to the other. Fierce determination hardened their features as they stared at each other like a pair of bulls who’d just locked horns

  “Aye,” Murdoch agreed with a pensive murmur.

  “Then help us find the bastard we’re after.”

  Murdoch’s jaw tightened. He finally muttered an ugly series of curses and set his glass to his lips once more. “Fine.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said, his expression easing. “Now describe the man who came to see you.”

  Murdoch hesitated just enough to convey his displeasure before leaning back. “I can do better than that, my lord. It was the Marquess of Kirksdale.”

  Every tendon in Ida’s body drew tight with a pang. “You’re certain of this?”

  Murdoch swung his gaze toward her. “He left his calling card f
or me to use in case I recalled something useful.”

  Swallowing, Ida exchanged a quick look with Simon before asking, “What did he want to know?”

  “The extent of my knowledge regarding those letters. Claimed there might be some doubt about who’d sent them and told me he meant to dismiss it for good.”

  “And?” Simon pressed when Murdoch added nothing further.

  Murdoch shrugged one shoulder. “I thought it best to keep mum about it, so I didn’t reveal a damn thing. Not,” he added, “that I’ve much to reveal. The letters you’re asking about were brought to me by a messenger.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Murdoch proceeded to do so. When he was done, he went to his desk and opened one of the drawers. “There’s something else. Something I’ve held onto that you might find useful.”

  Returning to the table, he handed a folded piece of paper to Ida. Opening it, she stared down at the brief message. “These are instructions for delivery.”

  Murdoch grunted. “I thought it odd even then that I was required to tell the captain of the French fleet that I sailed on behalf of France. But I believed I was serving my king, so being the loyal Englishman I am, I did as I was told.”

  “Of course,” Ida muttered. She refolded the paper and gave it to Simon for safekeeping. “Thank you.”

  “If you’re really determined to figure out where those letters originated,” Murdoch said, “I’d suggest you track down the messenger. But my honest advice would be to leave the matter alone and move on. The last thing you want is to make an enemy of a marquess.”

  “Duly noted,” Simon told him.

  He and Ida took their leave and returned to the carriage. “So now we have a note that could have been written by just about anyone and the description of a messenger who could be anywhere in the world for all we know.”

  “I have an idea of how to track him down,” Simon said as he opened the carriage door for her. “An advertisement in the paper seeking a messenger with at least four years of experience might do the trick.”

  Ida paused with one foot on the step. “There are bound to be hundreds who match those qualifications, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”

  With his mouth set in a firm line and a stiff nod of agreement, Simon told the coachman to take them to the Mayfair Chronicle, while she continued to climb inside the carriage. “We also know Kirksdale was trying to destroy any proof there might have been of your father’s lack of involvement,” he said once he was sitting across from her and they were on their way. “As it stands, I’d say he’s just become our top suspect.”

  “We still need proof.”

  “Without a doubt, which is why I plan to drop you off at the house once we’ve placed the advertisement, so I can head home. It’s possible I have some old pieces of correspondence from him lying about. Comparing them to the note Murdoch gave us might shed some light on his guilt.”

  “Perhaps,” Ida agreed, “but I don’t think we should dismiss the other men yet. See if you have samples of their writing as well. Just in case Kirksdale was a true friend of my father’s and his meeting Murdoch was due to an effort on his part to clear his name.”

  Simon frowned. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

  “I don’t know, but we mustn’t treat him or anyone else with the kind of injustice my father was forced to endure. We have to be better than that.”

  “You’re right.” Simon closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they appeared more focused than before. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Thank you.” The discomfort from earlier hadn’t quite gone away while they’d spoken to Murdoch. Now that she was alone with Simon once more, it flared back to life. She glanced at him discreetly, at his strained features and rigid posture. “Regarding our previous conversation…”

  A nerve ticked at the edge of his jaw. His eyes, seeking hers, looked almost angry. Ida shuddered. “There’s nothing more to discuss. You know where I stand.”

  They didn’t say anything else for the remainder of the ride. When they reached the newspaper office, Simon asked her to wait in the carriage while he went to post the advertisement. Half an hour later, he delivered her to Number Five Bedford Street as promised and accompanied her inside. She took off her bonnet but he refrained from removing his hat or his gloves. He wouldn’t be staying this time. He’d said he wouldn’t, so why the disappointment on her part?

  “I’m supporting a couple of bills in Parliament,” he said while lingering near the door. Voting will take place tomorrow and Thursday, so I have to attend.”

  “In other words, you’ll be busy for the next two days.” She wished she didn’t feel so much regret over having to lose his company, if only for a brief time.

  “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. And while you might be itching to follow the new leads we’ve acquired, it will have to wait until Friday.” A brief hesitation followed, and then he said, “On a different note, I’d like you to reconsider my offer regarding a servant.”

  “We’ve been over this repeatedly,” Ida protested. He’d brought the subject up at least five times since their run-in with the Duchess of Huntley at La Belle Anglaise.

  “We need not fill the house with people if you do not wish it,” he said, “but I think it would be good for you to have someone else here with you. It would, in my opinion, be the responsible thing.”

  “I don’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

  “Which I respect, but we have to consider the fact that you are supposed to be my ward. As such, you cannot remain here alone. It isn’t proper.”

  “Simon, I—”

  “Have you given any thought to how you will prepare for the ball without someone to help you dress?”

  Ida huffed out a breath. He’d neatly managed to corner her. “All right. Fine. I’ll agree to a maid of all works if that will satisfy you.”

  “Thank you.” He stiffly bent to place a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll stop by early on Friday so we can discuss whatever I may have learned by then before heading off to the Huntley ball. I’ll bring the maid with me.”

  Ida could only nod. His kiss, so lacking the ardor he’d put on display earlier, was devastating. He was devastating. And as she bid him good bye and watched him walk back to his carriage, she knew she’d miss him terribly until she saw him again.

  Chapter Nine

  “Do I not have any letters, notes, or invitations from the Marquess of Kirksdale lying around?” Simon asked Winthorp the next morning. After returning home the previous afternoon, he’d riffled through every piece of correspondence he had on file. Finding examples of his uncle’s handwriting had been easy enough. He had several letters and missives from him, and Simon was relieved to see that it didn’t match the lopsided scrawl on the note he’d received from Captain Murdoch.

  Neither did Elmwood’s. An inquiry he’d sent Simon three years prior with regard to the purchase of a foal sired by one of Simon’s stallions had proved it.

  “If I recall,” his secretary said as he went to one of the cabinets Simon had already searched, “you received a petition from him a few years ago requesting support in his effort to have the Blasphemous and Seditious Libels Act included in what became known as the Six Acts.”

  Yes. That was it.

  Simon watched as Winthorp retrieved a box labeled 1819. The act Kirksdale had spearheaded allowed magistrates to seize libelous materials and to have those who’d written them transported for up to fourteen years. The purpose had, of course, been to prevent another Peterloo Massacre, but Simon had feared it would stop those who had legitimate concerns from voicing their opinions and that the act would simply serve as a means to silence the masses.

  Winthorp riffled through the stack of papers inside the box until he located the sheet he sought. He handed it to Simon, who noted the blank spot at the bottom where he’d been asked to sign. He had no regret over his disagreement with Kirksdale on this issue. His belief tha
t the massacre hadn’t been the fault of the peaceful protestors seeking reformation but of the government’s order to break things up by sending cavalry into their midst was what had caused him to craft his own bill – the reason he had to participate in today’s and tomorrow’s parliamentary sessions.

  He considered the neatly penned script outlining the act at the top of the page. One quick glance was enough to inform him that it wasn’t a match either. Although…

  His gaze sharpened. “It says, ‘the Marquess of Kirksdale wishes to acquire your support in the following matter of great importance.’”

  Winthorp tilted his head. “Yes?”

  Simon re-read the phrasing and sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I would never refer to myself in the third person like this. Not even for the purposes of making a formal request.”

  “Of course not, my lord. I gather the marquess’s secretary penned it.”

  In other words, it wasn’t the least bit helpful in terms of discerning whether or not Kirksdale had also written the instructions delivered to Captain Murdoch. Of course, it was possible to suppose he had by using the process of elimination, since it was now clear that neither Elliot nor Elmwood was behind it.

  Still, Simon sighed and returned the request from Kirksdale to the box. He didn’t like maybes. He wanted concrete facts – irrevocable proof of the marquess’s scheming. After all, he’d misjudged people before. Considering the stakes involved in charging a peer with treason, he’d like to avoid a repeat occurrence where Kirksdale was concerned.

  Simon glanced at the clock perched on top of the cabinet next to the door. “I have to go. But before I do, there’s one more thing.”

  “My lord?”

  “I’ll once again be requiring a maid at Bedford Street.” He chose to avoid further explanation. Telling Winthorp he now had a ward would be pointless. The secretary was too familiar with Simon’s affairs to believe such a story.