A Dangerous Temptation (Bow Street Brides Book 5)

by Jillian Eaton

  With marked effort Tobias forced his eyes upwards. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. On a frustrated hiss of breath he sat back and dragged a hand through his hair, fingers making a disheveled mess of the inky black tresses.

  What to tell her and what to keep to himself? What to reveal and what to keep secret? She already knew so much about him and yet he’d hardly shared anything. Not even his full name. Which was, he supposed, as good a place to start as any.

  “Tobias,” he grunted, looking out the window.

  “What?”

  “Tobias. Tobias Kent. You asked me before what my name was, and that’s it.”

  “Tobias Kent,” she repeated huskily, and hearing his name spill from her lips sent heat shooting straight to his loins.

  Bluidy hell.

  Grimacing, he tried to subtly pull the edge of his coat over his lap but no amount of clothing was going to disguise his jutting arousal. Amelia was a walking torch of desire…and he was a match, waiting to be set aflame.

  There was no way he could be with her and not want her. No way he could want her and not take her. And if he did that, if he took her for his own, what would happen when the devils inside of him were silenced forever?

  “I canna do this,” he rasped, shaking his head.

  “You can’t do what? Tobias? Tobias!” She shouted his name when he flung open the carriage door. For a moment he stood with his head lowered and legs braced. Even now he could smell her sweet perfume. It wrapped around him like a pair of silken arms, trying to lure him back into the carriage. His resolve wavering, he closed his eyes as he silently battled between what he wanted to do…and what he needed to do. What he’d sworn he would stop at nothing to do. What he’d promised Hannah he would do when he held her limp, bloody body clutched to his chest.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He wouldn’t forsake his revenge.

  Not even for a duchess.

  Muscles coiling, he leapt out of the carriage.

  Managing to grab hold of the heavy swinging door, Amelia slammed it shut and scowled out the small square window at Kent’s retreating back. That was the second time he’d jumped out of a moving carriage to avoid her. A bit dramatic, really. By what else did she expect of a brooding Bow Street Runner? Particularly one who couldn’t seem to decide between wanting to kiss her or wanting to risk breaking his neck just to get away from her.

  Lips pursing, she flopped back into her seat and stared up at the ceiling. For a second, she almost thought she’d done it. She almost thought she’d peeled back the layers of bristling animosity and revealed the real man beneath the mask. He’d even told her his name. Tobias Kent. But then something had changed. She’d known it the moment his eyes had gone dark. And the next thing she knew she’d been watching him walk away.

  Again.

  Perhaps it was penance, she decided. For all the times she’d walked away from her various suitors. Maybe this was simply fate’s way of evening the score. Well, she had received the message loud and clear.

  If a man jumped out of a moving carriage once, shame on him.

  But if he jumped out of it twice…

  “Shame on you,” she murmured aloud.

  “What was that, dear?” Blinking owlishly, Aunt Constance lifted her head.

  A confirmed spinster, the Duchess of Webley’s older sister had never married despite being engaged to no less than one duke, two earls, and – although no one in the family cared to admit it – a lowly baron.

  To say Aunt Constance was mildly eccentric would be like saying the sun was mildly warm. One never knew what outlandish thing was going to pop out of her mouth, which was why she’d been mostly relegated to the country where she shared a guest cottage with three cats and a turtle she’d affectionately dubbed Sir Georgie after none other than Mad King George.

  Concerned when her sister had failed to arrive in Bath as scheduled, Aunt Constance had taken it upon herself to make the journey to London. Vanessa had immediately tried to send her back from whence she’d came, but Aunt Constance wouldn’t hear a word of it.

  “The duke is bedridden,” she’d exclaimed, looking distastefully at the Duke of Webley (whom she’d never very much liked for reasons she had always kept to herself). “You need me.”

  But Vanessa, who had never quite understood her sister, needed Aunt Constance like she needed a nail in her shoe which was why she’d foisted her off on Amelia as a chaperone. Given Amelia’s age, it was a mostly ceremonial position, but one Aunt Constance very much enjoyed as, in her own words, “I can see my favorite niece and nap at the same time.”

  Never mind that Amelia was her only niece, given that Vanessa had no other sisters. And thank goodness she didn’t, as it was a small miracle she hadn’t already killed the one she did have.

  Amelia had never understood how two people, born of the same parents, could be so completely different. And she’d also wondered (more than once) if she might not have been better suited as Aunt Constance’s daughter. They certainly had more in common than Amelia and Vanessa, including a general dislike for fripperies and a low tolerance for pompous dukes and arrogant earls.

  “Never trust a man with better hair than yours,” her aunt was fond of saying, and it was advice Amelia had heeded on several occasions since her debut. She was curious as to what Aunt Constance would think of Tobias, but knew better than to ask. If her mother caught wind she’d been keeping time with a Runner (and an Irish one, at that) Amelia would be locked in her room until she either perished of stubbornness or agreed to marry a lord which Vanessa deemed suitable.

  She rather hoped it didn’t rain on her funeral.

  “Oh nothing,” she said, patting Aunt Constance’s hand. To look at her aunt was to look at a slightly older and more unkempt version of her mother. The two sisters shared the same blue eyes and brown hair, but where Vanessa was always immaculately turned out Aunt Constance could often be found wearing mismatched stockings and shoes. There was an earthy quality to her. One that brought to mind a patch of daisies growing by the side of the road instead of a carefully cultivated English rose blooming within the confines of a tidy garden.

  For her part, Amelia didn’t know which flower best represented her. Was she a daisy, overgrown and out of place but happy to go wherever the wind took her? Or was she a rose, content to be pruned and shaped and stay where she’d been planted?

  Seeing her mother and Aunt Constance side by side had painted a clear picture of the two very different futures that awaited her. Would she be a spinster and live out her days in a cottage filled with cats? Or would she follow in Vanessa’s footsteps and marry a duke that didn’t love her?

  Was she a daisy?

  Or was she a rose?

  “That handsome bloke you were arguing with didn’t seem like nothing to me.” Aunt Constance grinned when Amelia’s mouth fell open. “Don’t look so surprised, dear. I see more than people think I do. And don’t fret. I won’t tell your mother.” Her eyebrows wiggled. “Just as long as you tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know if there’s a carriage ride long enough for that,” Amelia said dryly.

  “Oh,” Aunt Constance breathed, blue eyes lighting with excitement, “do tell.”

  And so Amelia did. Beginning with nearly running Tobias over and ending with his abrupt departure, she told her aunt everything. And when she was finished she closed her eyes and tilted her head back and sighed, long and loud and deep.

  “I just don’t know, Auntie.”

  “You don’t know what, dear?”

  Amelia grimaced. “If it’s worth the trouble. If he’s worth the trouble. Even if Tobias stopped jumping out of carriages to get away from me, Mother would never approve of the match in a hundred years. Neither would Father.”

  “No,” Aunt Constance agreed, “they certainly wouldn’t. But then, do they really need to?”

  One eye slanted open. “You would have us elope?”

  “I would have you follow your heart, dear. Wh
erever it may lead.”

  “And if it led me to Gretna Green?”

  Aunt Constance’s eyes twinkled. “I hear Scotland is lovely this time of year.”

  “And how would you know that?” Amelia asked, giving her aunt a teasing nudge with her elbow.

  “Because a long time ago, I almost eloped with my sweetheart. Don’t look so surprised, dear,” Aunt Constance repeated. “I wasn’t always your stodgy old Auntie, you know.”

  “I’ve never once thought of you as old or stodgy.” The carriage turned and started to head back towards Grosvenor Square. Amelia quickly rapped her fist against the wall to indicate they’d like to continue on in the park, then gave her full attention to her aunt and the stunning secret she’d just revealed. “What was his name? Who was he? What happened?”

  “Harold Turing. He was the son of our gardener.” Aunt Constance smiled at Amelia, but her gaze was far away, locked in a different time and a different place. “And as to what happened…well, I’m sure you can guess. After all, it’s the same story repeated over and over again, just with different characters.

  “We ran away on the eve of one of the largest balls of the season. The very same ball where your mother met your father. Which, had I known that was going to happen, may have caused me to postpone the elopement.” Her hand fluttered in the air. “But that’s another story for another day. Suffice it to say, your grandfather did not approve of his eldest daughter marrying a man who dug in the dirt for a living and I was dragged back home before the nuptials could take place. Harold was let go on the spot, and I never saw or heard from him again. Two weeks later I found myself engaged to an earl and that, as they say, was that.” She sighed wistfully. “My one and only attempt at true rebellion.”

  “But you never married,” Amelia said quietly, her heart aching for the girl her aunt had been. The girl who had seen her hopes and dreams dashed simply because she’d fallen in love with a man her parents did not approve of. A girl who had held her happily-ever-after clutched in the palm of her hand…only to have to wrenched away and turned to ash.

  Aunt Constance was correct. It was a story that had been told over and over again. But that didn’t make it right then, and it didn’t make it right now. Love was love, no matter if the man in question was a duke, or a gardener…or a Bow Street Runner.

  “No, I never did.” Aunt Constance managed a smile, albeit a wobbly one. “Mostly because I never found myself another Harold, and a little bit, I suppose, because I wanted to get back at my father for sending him away.”

  “I’m sorry.” Amelia squeezed her aunt’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, dear. You weren’t even born yet.” Aunt Constance shook her head, and her eyes cleared. “I am quite content with my cats, and seeing my favorite niece from time to time. Now we’d best get you back home, less your mother start to think I’m failing in my duties as chaperone. Don’t you have an appointment at noon?”

  “With the dressmaker,” Amelia groaned. “I completely forgot.”

  “Cavorting with devilish rakes, forgetting appointments.” Aunt Constance clucked her tongue. “It’s a good thing I came when I did, as you’re clearly in need of some guidance. Now…” A mischievous grin spread across her face. “Let’s plan on how we’re going to get you together again with your Runner, shall we?”

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning Amelia woke to alarming news. Or rather, to be more accurate, her mother woke her with alarming news.

  “Have you seen this?” Vanessa cried as she flew into Amelia’s bedchamber, ripped back her coverlet, and shoved a copy of the London Caller underneath her nose. “Have you?”

  “What – what’s happened?” Groggy from sleep and only half awake, Amelia pushed the paper away and sat up, her long blonde hair sticking out every which way. Rubbing her eyes, she looked first at the window where the sky was still pink from sunrise and then glared at her mother. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

  “Have you any idea why Lady V would insinuate you had something to do with Lord Reinhold’s murder?” Throwing the paper down on the bed, Vanessa marched across the room and began to yank open the drapes. When a maid tried to help she snapped at the girl and sent her scurrying out of the bedchamber.

  Amelia gaped at her mother’s back as the gravity of her words began to register within her sleep addled mind. “I don’t understand. Lord Reinhold is…”

  “Dead,” the duchess said flatly. “Killed, in his own home. It’s all anyone is talking about.”

  Amelia picked up the London Caller with numb fingers and turned it over. There, splashed across the front page in large block lettering, was a headline that made her blood run cold.

  EARL FOUND BUTCHERED IN BEDROOM

  She quickly skimmed the short article. The details were scarce, and mostly talked about Reinhold’s family and personal holdings. Only at the very end did it indicate the investigation was being handled by the Bow Street Runners, and a suspect had yet to be brought before the magistrate.

  “This is horrible,” she breathed.

  As much as she had disliked Reinhold – which was quite a bit – she didn’t want him dead. And certainly not in such a horrific manner. A fall from a horse or a carriage accident was one thing, but to be murdered with a knife in his very own foyer?

  The thought sent chills racing down her spine. Chills that culminated in a trembling shiver when she flipped to the gossip pages and read what Lady V, self-proclaimed expert on everything that was anything in the ton, had written.

  My Darling Readers,

  I was as heartbroken as any of you to learn of the Earl of Reinhold’s abrupt passing. Surely he was one of the best of us. Charming, handsome, and with such a lovely estate! Oh, but to think of what might have been. Another thing I cannot help but think about is the disagreement Lord Reinhold found himself engaged in on the night of the Newmark Ball.

  Rumor has it he got in quite the row with an unnamed gentleman in possession of a, shall we say, questionable background. The cause of the fight, you ask? None other than a certain blonde-haired ice maiden. Surely you know who I am referring to, dear readers. And if not…well, I’m never one to name names!

  One would think after four failed seasons she would have welcomed Lord Reinhold’s honorable suit with open arms, but it seems this was not the case. Which begs the question…did she have something to do with his death?

  Yours Always,

  Lady V

  “What complete, utter rubbish.” Throwing the paper away from her as if it had suddenly grown fangs, Amelia sprang off the bed and appealed to her mother with hands clasped together. “Surely you don’t believe a word of it. The Season is over, and Lady V is just trying to stir up gossip to fill the void until it begins again.”

  The corners of Vanessa’s mouth tightened. “Were you present when this – this disagreement at the ball took place?”

  While Amelia hadn’t told her mother about Tobias, she couldn’t outright lie to her when faced with such a direct questions. It simply wasn’t in her nature to do so. “Yes, I was. But it isn’t what you think–”

  “What I think,” Vanessa hissed as she wrapped her fingers around her daughter’s arm, “is that we are leaving for the country this very minute! Had I known you were involved in this debacle we would have left the day after the ball. I cannot imagine what our peers are saying behind our backs! No doubt they believe we’ve been staying in town to hide our shame. Dottie. Dottie!” she screeched, and the maid she’d sent running out came hurrying back in.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Dottie said anxiously. A tiny slip of a thing with large eyes and a pallid complexion, she’d only recently been moved up from below stairs after one of the other maids found herself too heavy with child to continue working.

  “Start packing our belongings.”

  “What – what belongings?” Dottie said, wringing her hands.

  The duchess’ eyes narrowed to thin slits. “All
of them. Amelia, come with me.”

  Left with little choice (Amelia knew better than to waste her breath on arguing when her mother was in such a state), she allowed herself to be pulled out of the bedchamber and down the stairs. They ended up in a small, rarely used pocket parlor tucked between the library and the drawing room. Closing and locking the door, Vanessa remained standing in front of it as she regarded her daughter with a tightly creased brow. It pulled at the fine lines on her face, for once making her appear every day of her fifty-two years.

  “You must tell me the truth,” she said without preamble. “Did you have anything to do with Lord Reinhold’s death?”

  Amelia could only stare. “I cannot believe you would ask me that.”

  “It’s no secret you never very much liked the man,” Vanessa said defensively. “Although I haven’t the faintest idea why. He would have been the perfect husband.”

  “Not as perfect as you think,” Amelia muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Nothing.”

  “This is not a jest, Amelia! Lady V has all but publicly accused you of inciting an argument between Lord Reinhold and an unnamed rogue two weeks before his death! What do you think she would say if she discovered the earl had been here the day of his murder and you not only refused his courtship, but your father had him thrown from the house? We would be social pariahs!”

  “Do you really think I am capable of murder?” Amelia asked in disbelief.

  “You don’t like bows,” Vanessa said as if the two things were even remotely comparable. “Who knows what you’re capable of?” Then her expression softened the slightest bit. “Of course I don’t believe you had anything to do with it, darling. But if we do not extricate ourselves from this mess as quickly as possible others may not look upon you so kindly. You have a…a way about you Amelia. You always have.”