by Candace Camp
Desiree was determined not to give herself too easily, but she had never intended to spend her life celibate. One day she would meet someone to whom she could commit fully. Was Tom that someone? Was she brave enough to take that next step? Or would she be foolish to do so?
There was, she realized, no way of knowing if what she felt would last. She wasn’t even sure if what she felt for him was love. It was more than passion; she desired his company as much as she desired him. But was that love or merely infatuation? Her head told her she had not known him long enough to fall in love. But did love follow the rules? Desiree certainly never had.
Then there was the issue of what Tom felt for her. Desire, yes, that was obvious. But what about love? There was a closed quality to Tom. She found him more difficult to read than most; it had been one of the things about him that had intrigued her from the start. He had traveled a long way from his initial anger and dislike to a present friendship. He was concerned about her safety. He respected her abilities. But did that add up to love? Perhaps all that would lead to love one day. Or it might not. Was Tom even capable of love, or had growing up as he had in Falk’s unfeeling care, without parents or siblings, stunted any such emotion?
He yearned for that house. Desiree had seen that in his eyes, however much he had tried to gloss over it. One would think that his dream of a home would include a wife and family. Desiree suspected, however, that a woman like herself would not readily fit into that particular dream.
Such thoughts were running annoyingly through her head when the butler brought her a note from Tom saying that he had an address for Nan McGee. She jumped up and changed into something more attractive than the dress in which she had been lounging about the house, and called for the carriage.
Desiree couldn’t hold back a wide smile when Tom got into the carriage. He looked equally happy to see her, which made her smile even brighter. Mrs. McGee—if indeed it was the same Mrs. McGee—was retired and living in a small flat in Lambeth.
They drove across the bridge and were soon there. Heart pounding in anticipation, Desiree walked up the stairs to the housekeeper’s room. Tom rapped sharply on the door, and after a minute or two, the door opened the width of a hand, and a gray-haired woman looked out at them with narrowed eyes.
“Who are you?” she snapped.
“Mrs. McGee, we’d like to speak with you a few minutes, if you don’t mind,” Tom began.
“Well, I do mind.” She started to close the door.
“No, wait!” Desiree put her hand against the door to stop her. “Please. I’m Desiree Malone. I need to speak to you.”
Mrs. McGee frowned. “Malone? I don’t know any—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes going to the folded ten-pound note Tom held up.
“My mother was Stella Malone. My father—”
“Good God! Lord Moreland’s bastard?” There was surprise on the housekeeper’s face, but no exclamation of happiness at seeing her old charge.
Tom stiffened beside Desiree, but she put a hand on his arm and said calmly, “Yes. I want to talk to you about him.”
Mrs. McGee stepped back to let them enter, deftly snagging the folded bill from Tom’s fingers as they went by. She sat down in the lone armchair in the room, leaving Tom to pull over the two straight chairs from the table for him and Desiree.
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you work for my mother long?” Desiree matched the housekeeper’s businesslike manner.
“A year and a half, two years. I think she’d just taken up with his lordship. Before that she was some sort of entertainer,” Mrs. McGee said dismissively. “There was me and another maid and a pot-boy.”
“You were there when my brother and I were born?”
She nodded. “Aye. The other boy was already with her. He was a quiet lad, that one. Always watching.”
That was Brock, all right. But Desiree wasn’t going to wander away from her goal. “Do you remember who came to visit? Besides Lord Moreland?”
“There was that other one that was mad for her,” Mrs. McGee replied. “Don’t remember his name.”
“Lloyd Paxton?” Tom inserted.
“Aye, that was it. They called him Pack or Pax, some such thing. There was that other woman. Miss Malone used to work with her.”
“Bruna Upton.”
The housekeeper shrugged. “I guess. I don’t remember much, except she was French or something.”
“Italian?” Desiree said.
“I suppose,” the other woman agreed.
“What about Falk?” Tom asked.
“Falk!” Mrs. McGee scowled. “That kidsman—yes, he was there. Too often for my liking. The man was a scoundrel.”
“He still is,” Tom commented, and the housekeeper let out a short laugh.
“Was Falk in love with Stella also?” Given what the housekeeper had just said, Desiree couldn’t believe Mr. Paxton’s supposition that Falk was dallying with Mrs. McGee.
“Him?” Mrs. McGee’s laugh was a hoot of derision. “That man never loved anyone but himself. No. He came to get the money. That’s all.”
“Money? From my mother? Why was she paying him?”
“No, not from her. It was Lord Moreland that was paying him. Blackmail, you understand. Falk knew about the affair, and his lordship paid Falk to keep him from telling Lady Moreland. Lord Moreland would leave it with your mother, and Falk would come by and pick it up every so often.”
“Did you know what my mother and Lord Moreland were planning to do? Did she tell you?”
“No, not a word.” The woman’s tone turned indignant. “She didn’t know she was going until that morning. He sent her a note, didn’t he? Told her they were going to hare off to his cottage by the sea for a few days. She was that excited, went running around, packing and all. Then that carriage of his pulled up and she went running out to it, like she was going to heaven. That was the last I saw of her. Left me here to take care of you lot. Didn’t leave me any money, never sent me a note. Nothing. I didn’t know if she was alive or dead till that Paxton fellow came over, claiming he’d got a letter from Moreland saying they were gone.”
“He came over here before that, though, didn’t he?” Tom asked. “Mr. Paxton? He came over the night they left, didn’t he?”
“No, it was the day after they left. They went on a Monday afternoon, and then this Paxton showed up at the door the next day, saying they’d invited him for the evening. Typical. Not a lick of sense among the lot of them.”
“Paxton came over the next day?” Tom asked. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” She scowled at him. “She went running out one afternoon, and then the next day, in the evening, Mr. Paxton comes calling. Seemed put out, I thought, that they hadn’t told him.”
“Do you think they had planned to run away? Or did they decide to go to the United States on the spur of the moment?”
The housekeeper made a wordless noise of disgust. “I don’t think she went anywhere at all.”
Desiree blinked. “What? Why do you say that?”
“And leave you three behind?” Mrs. McGee shook her head firmly. “She was a flighty thing and mad as could be about that man, but she was a good mum. She loved you three to death. Why, she was still feeding you herself. I’m not saying she wouldn’t have gone with him to the States or anywhere he wanted, for that matter. But not without her children. And what woman goes off to a foreign country with only one piece of luggage? Without taking all her jewelry? She left her jewelry box behind, and it was full. The only things missing were a few of the fancy pieces Moreland gave her.” She looked at Desiree. “Wouldn’t you take all your usual jewelry?”
“Yes.” Desiree nodded.
“You seem well acquainted with Stella’s jewels,” Tom said dryly.
Mrs. McGee crossed her arms and glared at him. “I
had to feed the children, didn’t I? Pay the coalman and such.”
“Yes, of course,” Desiree said soothingly, casting an admonitory look toward Tom. This was scarcely the time to offend the woman by accusing her of theft—especially since it seemed to Desiree that everything she’d told them so far was the truth.
“Mrs. McGee, if you don’t believe my mother ran away, then why didn’t she come back? What do you think she did?”
“I don’t think she did anything. Lord Moreland killed her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DESIREE GAPED AT HER. “What? My father? You think he killed my mother?”
Mrs. McGee nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
“But why? Everyone says they were very much in love,” Desiree protested.
“She was. Don’t know about him—you never can tell with men. Maybe he got tired of her or she was pressing him to leave his wife. Or he was afraid his wife would find out. Maybe he just wanted to stop paying blackmail to Falk.”
“But Lord Moreland disappeared, as well,” Tom pointed out.
“Well, he ran away after he did it, I’d guess,” the housekeeper replied. “Afraid he’d get his neck stretched for it.”
“But the letter—” Desiree began, pulling up every ounce of her power to sense any deception on the part of the woman in front of her. But whether or not the housekeeper was correct, she obviously believed that Desiree’s father was a killer.
“Was written by him, now, wasn’t it? Nobody got a word from her,” Mrs. McGee pointed out triumphantly. “Mark my words, he murdered her. It’s always the lover. Or the husband.”
Desiree stared, too stunned to think of anything to say.
“Did you tell the police?” Tom asked. “Report your suspicions?”
The other woman let out a scornful laugh. “Me? Accuse a duke’s kin of murder? I think not. They wouldn’t do anything to a Moreland. And I couldn’t prove anything. I wasn’t getting involved with the police.”
“I’d guess not, since you were pilfering her jewels,” Tom retorted.
“I’ve had enough of you,” Mrs. McGee shot back, glowering at Tom. “Coming into my own house and accusing me of thieving. I did you a favor and ans—”
“I paid you.”
“Out!” Mrs. McGee jabbed a finger at the door.
“Tom, let’s go.” Desiree rose, starting for the door, and Tom followed.
They returned to the agency office, neither of them speaking. Desiree’s head was still spinning. She could tell from Tom’s frequent sidelong glances that he was worried about her. She wanted to reassure him that she was fine. But she wasn’t sure she could. The housekeeper’s words had set her reeling.
As soon as they were inside Tom’s flat, Desiree whirled to face him, arms flung wide. “Now my father is a murderer?”
“We don’t know that,” Tom argued. “I am not at all sure we can trust that woman.”
“She wasn’t lying. I’m sure of it.”
“All that means is that she believes what she says. That’s her opinion, not a fact. Sit down, and I’ll make us a pot of tea.”
“I can’t sit down,” Desiree replied and began to pace. “I thought it couldn’t be worse than my parents abandoning us, but now...my mother years dead, my father a killer!”
“Here now.” Tom came up behind her, curling his arms around her and holding her close. “Don’t fret so.”
The feel of his arms around her, the warmth and strength of his body against hers calmed Desiree, and she leaned her head back against his chest. “The things she said made so much sense, Tom. It’s hard to deny them. Leaving with only one case? Not taking her jewelry? And you and I know that Stella didn’t take the expensive pieces, either, because they were stashed away in the secret place beside the fireplace. Who would set off on a long journey, much less a whole lifetime, with only a change of clothes and a hairbrush? Leave the letters that were so dear to her, the jewels she’d been given by the man she loved? I certainly wouldn’t do that.”
“They could have left on the spur of the moment,” Tom reasoned. “They went to the cottage for a few days. When it came time to part, they simply couldn’t, and they ran away right then and there.”
“They were certainly a thoughtless pair if that’s so. They could have come back here first. Packed their clothes and taken their children. How awful could it have been to spend one more week in London making preparations?”
“I don’t know.” Tom laid his cheek against her head, his hands sliding up and down her arms soothingly. “But I do know that Mrs. McGee’s story doesn’t entirely stand up, either.”
With some reluctance, Desiree pulled out of his hold and turned to face him. “In what way?”
“For one thing, she didn’t tell the police. She didn’t have to tell them she thought Alistair murdered Stella. All she had to do was report her missing. It would have set an investigation in motion. But she didn’t.
“And why would she have leaped to the idea that Alistair killed your mother? Everyone said they were madly in love. Even Mrs. McGee didn’t deny that he appeared to be in love with Stella. If your brothers went off and didn’t come back, would you assume one of them had killed the other? No, you’d worry that something had happened to both of them.”
“She could have feared they would find out she’d been pilfering the jewelry.”
“I know, but really, how would the police have known that? Only Stella would have recognized what pieces were missing, and if Mrs. McGee really believed Stella was dead, she would have thought Stella wasn’t going to return to accuse her of theft. No, I think it’s something she thought up later, making the facts conform to her theory.”
The kettle whistled and he went to pour the water over the tea leaves. “There are inconsistencies in her story. For instance, she says they left in the afternoon the day before Mr. Paxton came over to find them gone. But he says Alistair was still in London the night before, which would mean that they would have left the same day Paxton showed up at the house.”
Desiree lifted a shoulder. “One of them doesn’t remember it correctly. It was twenty-eight years ago, so that’s hardly surprising.”
“True. But there’s an internal inconsistency, as well. She said on the one hand that she didn’t tell anyone because the police wouldn’t have charged a Moreland with murder, yet in the next breath she said that Alistair fled the country because he was afraid he’d get arrested. Those two things are opposites. I’m inclined to believe that she’s right in saying the police would have been very reluctant to arrest a Moreland. So why would he have run away?”
“People often act impulsively when they’re scared. They don’t stop to think, they just run.”
“Why did no one ever find your mother’s body?” Tom asked.
“Maybe he buried her. Or hid her body somewhere else.”
“If he was cool and calm enough to bury her, then why run?” Tom argued. “Hiding the body fits with returning home and brazening it out, not fleeing in a panic.”
“I suppose. I don’t know what to think.” Desiree sighed.
“Desiree.” Tom put two fingers beneath her chin to tilt her face up so that she looked into his eyes. “We don’t know what happened. We may never know. But whatever your parents did or didn’t do doesn’t mean anything about you. You are what you have created. Your parents did nothing but give you possibilities. You are the one who turned those possibilities into the person you are today. You’ve lived through a wealth of bad things, but you came out of it strong and whole. You didn’t let anyone defeat you, including Falk. I know that life, Desiree, and it’s hard. Most of the people you grew up with are dead or in jail or living in a bottle of gin. But you are both tough and good. You’re intelligent, you’re brave, you’re loving.” He grinned. “And you can climb a building like a cat.”
“I meant every bit of it.” He stroked his hand across her hair, and down her neck, sending bright shivers all through her. “I didn’t even mention how beautiful you are. How desirable. Whenever you smile at me, you turn me inside out.”
Desiree drew in a little breath, passion rising in her. She laid a hand against his cheek. “I feel the same.”
“Really?” His smile was lazily sensual, and his eyes heated. He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “I like the sound of that.”
“Do you? Yet you aren’t doing anything about it.” She reached up to trace his lips with her forefinger, and he caught it between his teeth, lightly nipping, then kissing it. Desiree melted inside. She slid her hands down his chest and under his jacket.
He made a noise, half chuckle, half groan. “Desiree...you’re going to kill me here.”
“That’s not my intention.” She moved closer, her eyes glowing up at him.
A tremor shook him and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him. Desiree kissed him back, pressing her body up into him.
He lifted his head. “Desiree, we should stop.”
“No.” She shook her head, the need inside her a driving, pulsing force, matched by another, deeper hunger.
She felt his body flame beneath her hands, and his voice was a trifle shaky as he said, “Wait. Are you certain?”
Why in the world had she been dithering about this earlier? She wanted this man. On every level, heart, body and mind. And she wanted him forever.
“I’m certain.”
There were few words after that, only a murmur of pleasure or a whispered name as they kissed and caressed, all the hunger of the past few days unleashed. And if Tom’s fingers on her buttons were clumsy or her touch untutored, neither of them noticed or cared.
Pleasure rushed through Desiree as Tom kissed her, leaving her mouth to nip at her ear and explore her throat. All the while, he unfastened the long line of buttons down the back of her dress, and Desiree wished she had worn something less fashionable—and easier to discard—today. But at least the dress didn’t require a corset; given the things that had been happening, she had taken to wearing something that would allow her more freedom of movement.