by Nancy Butler
He put her from him, gently setting her back on the chair. “It’s late,” he said gruffly.
“Yes,” she echoed, “it’s very late.”
Too late, she wanted to cry, seeing the remote expression again obscure all the ardent emotion in his face. If he could kiss her like that, feeling her respond to him with every fiber of her being, and then take his leave of her with such calmness and composure, then she reckoned he would always be beyond her.
“Good night,” he said from the doorway. “And make sure you lock up.”
“Yes,” she said dryly, looking away from him, “I haven’t the strength to fend off any more intruders.”
He grinned wistfully and thought, Gallant Jemima. For two nights running he had refused her offered favors, and she was still trying to make jokes. He went into the hall, softly closing the door behind him. He glanced down the hallway toward Armbruster’s room. The blasted cad had assumed Bryce would avail himself of Jemima’s bed, having vanquished the foe and won the lady for himself.
But Bryce had got the last laugh, after. A lot of bloody good it did him.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, as Jemima toyed with the toast on her bed tray, she realized she had been at the Prospect for five days and had not once breakfasted with Bryce. Was he grumpy in the mornings? she wondered, lounging back against her pillow. Or was he brisk and bright and tiresomely cheerful? Some part of her regretted that she’d not made the attempt to find out, and another part wished she had a lifetime to spend with him to discover all his moods—in the morning, at noon, and especially at night.
She loved him so fiercely, that at times it was an acute pain, slicing relentlessly at her insides like the sawblade in a timber mill. Other times a soft flush of tenderness washed over her, filling her with warmth and delight. When she recalled his amused teasing and his halting confidences, her heart sang. When she thought of his sordid past and his uncertain future, her stomach plummeted in dismay. And so the cycle repeated over and over, until she didn’t know whether there was great wisdom in loving him or pure folly.
She only knew that the heat of his kisses and the simmering ardor in his eyes fired her with such unmaidenly longings that she forgot any notions of chastity. All she desired was the thrill of his embrace and the bliss of his hard body, arching unrestrained against her own.
But Bryce would have no further opportunities to tempt her. She would not place herself in his path. Her pride would not allow it. He had rebuffed her twice in the past two days, and the lesson was well, if painfully, learned. Whether from a lack of desire, or a more noble disinclination to put her honor at risk, Bryce had thrust her away. Nothing would ever induce her to offer herself to him again. Nothing.
If that was love, then I’m forever done with it. Those bitter words he’d spoken last night were a clear warning, one she had to heed. Even the delicious thought of being once more dazzled by his kisses could not override her certainty that skilled passion was a pale substitute for true caring. And she would settle for nothing less from him.
There is no solace in these reflections, she told herself mournfully as she pushed aside her uneaten breakfast and climbed from her bed. Only frustration and unspeakable pain.
In the distance the church bell in Withershins was pealing softly. With the vague notion that a morning spent in devout worship would wipe all traces of Bryce from her soul, Jemima sought out Lovelace once she left her room and insisted they attend the service at the local church.
But even after she and the girl had been seated in the Bryce family pew in the ivy-draped Norman church, Jemima found herself unable to concentrate on the service. In the hushed and sacred confines of the sanctuary, her mind wandered again and again to the pagan stirrings Bryce aroused in her. When the rector, a stately gentlemen with a crown of white hair and a faint lisp, began his sermon, she realized he had uncannily chosen the parable of the wise and foolish virgins. Jemima thought that this was no more than the penance she deserved for encouraging a rake’s attentions, but she was squirming in her seat by the time the service ended.
As she and Lovelace came through the arched doorway of the church, Sir Walter accosted them. He hemmed and hawed a bit at first, and Jemima realized he did not wish to speak in front of Lovelace. She suggested the girl go on ahead with Sir Walter’s son, a well-favored young man with a cleft chin who, Jemima knew, would be a prime target for Lovelace’s particular charms. Once she was gone, Sir Walter took Jemima’s arm and led her toward the stone wall that abutted the graveyard.
“I don’t like to trouble you, Lady Jemima,” he said, wiping at his brow with a handkerchief. “But the fact of the matter is, Mr. Fletch sent a message to my home late last night. He had spoken with Sir Richard Hastings and was able to ascertain nothing.”
Jemima frowned. “Surely Sir Richard would have told him if there was any sort of plot afoot.”
“That’s what I thought. But Sir Richard all but ordered Mr. Fletch to halt his investigation. He insisted the dead man was not a French spy, and that he himself had been staying at the Iron Duke only to see the prizefight. Claims he had no papers of any sort on him that would interest a spy. Sent Mr. Fletch away with a flea in his ear, by all appearances.”
“Oh, dear,” she said softly. “That puts us back where we began. I mean with an unidentified corpse.”
Sir Walter scuffed his boot on the shaley ground. “He’ll never be identified now,” he said. “Had to bury him yesterday, in potter’s field. Poor blighter, set down in an unmarked grave. I didn’t mind so much, when I thought he was a Frenchy, but I wouldn’t wish that sort of burial on any God-fearing Englishman.”
Jemima forbore to point out that a great many French people were God-fearing, or that the dead man, of whatever nationality, had undoubtedly been a thief and therefore less God-fearing than most.
“So will you let the investigation drop?” she asked.
“Haven’t got much choice, have I? Mr. Fletch is not happy to have been called down from London on such a wild-goose chase.”
“Perhaps he can focus his attentions on finding Miss Wellesley’s missing family.”
“I sympathize with Miss Wellesley’s distress, ma’am, but chasing after a theatrical troupe is small fish for a man of Mr. Fletch’s talents. I expect he’ll be returning to London now.”
“Do you think it’s safe for her to remove to the Iron Duke?” she ventured.
“What? Why would she want to leave Bryce Prospect? I know Bryce has the devil of a reputation where ladies are concerned, but demme, the chit’s barely out of leading strings. No, no, I think she should stay on there until her family can be located. Well, I’d best be off now. Tomorrow I’ll be back to my usual duties—fining the local drunks and checking the cellars of the Bo’sun’s Mate for smuggled goods.” He chuckled. “Now let me get my son home before he makes a fool of himself over a pretty face.”
She glanced at the young man, who was standing tongue-tied as he gazed at Lovelace.
“Sir Walter—” she called out as he started toward the couple. His mention of smuggled goods had jogged her memory. “One more thing… Have you ever heard of a smuggler called Simmy Wilcox?”
Sir Walter turned and scratched the back of his ruddy neck. “Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in donkey’s years. Old Simmy Wilcox. He drowned as I recall, ten years ago it must have been.”
“Drowned?” she echoed blankly. “At sea?”
“No, in a vat of ale. Poor fellow was never right in his head. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she replied, schooling her face into polite disinterest. “I heard someone at the Prospect mention him and I thought it an odd name.”
“Odd name for an odd fellow. Give my regards to Bryce, ma’am. And tell him I’ll ride by to see him tomorrow to discuss this turn of events regarding Sir Richard.”
Jemima was quiet on the drive back to the Prospect, listening with only half an ear as Lovelace nattered on about Sir Walter’s son. Why had Bry
ce lied to her about Simmy Wilcox? What reason could he have for resurrecting a dead half-wit? It led to only one conclusion, one she had a hard time giving voice to, even inside her own head—he’d done it to put her off the scent. Because he knew the identity of the intruder in the hallway and was trying to protect him. And if the intruder was the murderer, then Bryce was sailing very close to being an accomplice to that deed. And if the man he was shielding was a French spy, which, in spite of Sir Richard’s disclaimer, she still had a strong suspicion was the case, then Bryce was involved in treason, as well.
She sat swaying in the carriage, trying to stifle her creeping uncertainty. It was lowering enough to have fallen in love with a libertine, but it now looked as though he might be something far worse.
The ton had speculated for years over where Beecham Bryce found the money to support his extravagant mode of living after his father had cut him off. Gambling, procuring, and smuggling were some of the opinions ventured. Jemima now feared she had another occupation to add to that list of unsavory possibilities—spying for French gold. It was rumored that Bacchus included in its membership many high-ranking military men and several cabinet ministers. And even a maiden lady could deduce that when gentlemen were in their cups and in the presence of a toothsome ladybird, all sorts of state secrets might come spilling out.
By the time they reached the house, she was no longer sure of anything. But she would not damn Bryce until she had something more conclusive to go on than her own fretful imaginings. Still, she had a hard time greeting him cordially when he came up to the carriage with a shotgun slung over his arm.
“Troy’s friends are mad to go shooting,” he said with an easy smile. ‘They’ve gone out back to the kennels…probably stirring my dogs to a frenzy.”
“I thought you didn’t hunt,” she said, eyeing the shotgun with distaste.
“Not big game, Jemima. But taking down a few pheasants is hardly in the same league, especially when they’re destined for the pot.”
“I doubt you need to hunt to put food on your table,” she uttered as she sailed past him into the hall.
He turned to Lovelace, who was watching Jemima’s departure with a perplexed expression. “She’s in such a queer mood, Mr. Bryce,” she said as he handed her onto the porch. “She barely said one word on the drive back from church. I’m parched from having to furnish all the conversation.”
Bryce grinned. That was one skill Lovelace had in spades.
“Perhaps it was something Sir Walter said that upset her,” she added. “He particularly wanted to speak to her alone.” She shrugged and then limped into the hall.
Bryce tapped one hand against the butt of his rifle. He toyed with the idea of letting the shooting party go on without him, so that he could discover what had turned Jemima so waspish. But he knew Troy’s friends were still curious about Armbruster’s sudden and sketchily explained departure, and he reckoned he needed to distract them. Jemima’s problem would have to wait until he returned from the field.
Not that he had any great fondness for hunting, he thought as he made his way around the house and toward the kennels. Blasting defenseless birds out of the sky with buckshot. Hang the woman for making him feel like a barbarian. It was damned inconvenient, having a conscience all of a sudden.
* * *
After luncheon, Jemima settled Lovelace in the sitting room with a novel and a box of chocolate bonbons. She then lingered in the lower hallway, hovering on the edge of indecision. Any search for evidence of Bryce’s involvement with the spies was tantamount to admitting her lack of faith in him. How could she claim to love him, if she had so little belief in his character? But then she thought of the women in her circle of friends, those who had had the misfortune to love hopeless gamesters, heavy drinkers, and chronic adulterers. The husband of one of her own dear sisters fell into that last category. Love, it appeared, was not predicated on sterling credentials or upright behavior.
Anyway, she reasoned as she shook off her hesitation and made her way up the stairs, she’d just have a quick peek into some of the places where Bryce might have hidden incriminating evidence—if only to reassure herself that it was all a hum. She’d begin in his bedroom.
Fortunately, most of the servants were taking advantage of their Sunday afternoon off, but she left the door open a crack, just in case someone came along the hall. In spite of the sunlight streaming in through the opened draperies, Bryce’s bedchamber still held a seductive aura. His scent seemed to permeate the room—brandy, tobacco, sandalwood, and something she couldn’t quite name. It was a masculine blend that was heady, rich, and very potent.
She stood in the center of the floor, her eyes drawn to the wide tester bed, where, but for a man’s misplaced gallantry, she might have found heaven. Dragging her gaze away from the brocaded coverlet, she caught sight of a painting that was propped up on a table near the window. She had not noticed it the night she had been there, indeed she could have sworn it had not been in the room on that occasion.
She was drawn to it now, drawn by the luminous play of light on water, which the artist had captured with only the faintest of brush strokes. She stopped in her tracks when she got close to the painting. It was surely one of Canaletto’s Venetian landscapes, and unless she was very mistaken, she had seen that exact painting last autumn in London, at an ambassador’s home.
Her heart began to drum unevenly. How had the painting come to be sitting in a Kentish manor house? Was it possible that, in addition to being a murderer’s accomplice and a spy, Bryce was also an art thief? Then the odors of fresh paint and linseed oil assailed her nose. It was a scent she often encountered while visiting the studios of her artist friends in London. It was also the scent she had identified when she first entered the Prospect. Oil paint, linseed oil, and the sharp tang of turpentine.
The landscape was newly painted; she suspected if she touched a fingertip to the surface of the water, it would come away smudged with a trace of cerulean blue.
I’ve always been a dab hand at it, Bryce had said about his ability to draw. This was something more than a dab hand, she thought, peering more closely at the canvas. This was downright forgery.
One of her impoverished artist friends had traveled to Amsterdam last year and had returned with several splendid Rembrandts—which he had himself painted. Jemima had jokingly suggested that, since they appeared so authentic, he should try to peddle them as the genuine article. But her jest had fallen flat. The artist had puffed himself up and pronounced dolorously that no one who called himself a true artist would ever condone the selling of forgeries.
Jemima spun away from the painting and fled from the room, overset by the notion that a man with the talent to recreate the haunting beauty of a Canaletto might so misuse that ability by hawking fakes to unsuspecting buyers. Could he have sunk so low?
In truth she knew little of Bryce’s ethics, and his morality, unfortunately, spoke for itself. But it wasn’t a crime, she countered, as she made her way down the staircase, merely to copy a classic painting. It was only reprehensible if the work was passed off as genuine. And she had no proof that Bryce intended anything underhanded with his Canaletto. For all she knew he, like her friend in London, merely copied masterpieces to hone his own skill.
She put it from her mind as she made her way to the library. It was best to focus on the more immediate task, which was discovering why Bryce had lied to her about the addled smuggler.
* * *
Bryce watched as Kimble took down a brace of quail with two quick shots. Troy and Carruthers clapped the marksman on the back, while Jenkins, the gamekeeper, looked on in disgruntled silence. It was technically not birding season, and Bryce knew the man resented this intrusion on his coverts by a group of boisterous dandies. Bryce himself was not pleased to be tramping about in the underbrush when he most heartily wished to be back at the Prospect with Jemima.
He suspected that the house party would soon be dispersing. Even though Troy’s frien
ds had arrived only the day before, they’d been noticeably unsettled by Armbruster’s abrupt departure. Furthermore, Bryce knew they would quickly grow bored with the limited entertainments the countryside had to offer. Jemima’s tenure in his home would soon be ending, and Bryce hadn’t a clue as to how to keep her there.
Not your home any longer, he reminded himself glumly. Especially not now, now that Kip was again in line to inherit. He didn’t even have a proper home to offer her. Nothing but a small row-house in Knightsbridge. Maybe he could install her in Bacchus, he thought with a wry grin.
Then he frowned when he realized where his unrestrained musings had taken him.
Christ! What was he thinking? What did it matter whether or not he had anything to offer her? She was a passing fancy, an amusing diversion.
The lie assaulted him, even as he gave voice to it in his head. Jemima had never been a diversion, not from the first moment she had flashed her incredible eyes at him and given him a proper set-down. He’d been as done in as one of the hapless quail Kimble had so neatly blasted from the air.
He threw off his disturbing thoughts with a muttered curse and went trailing after his guests.
“Your shot, Bryce,” Troy called, as the two liver-and-white spaniels went casting back and forth over the field, their stub tails wagging as they got down to the important business of flushing gamebirds.
“No.” Bryce held up one hand. “I’ll let you gentlemen take all the honors.”
“Demme, Bryce, don’t disappoint us,” Kimble called out. “One hears that you’re the finest marksman in London. They say you can shoot out the eye on the jack of hearts without disturbing his smile.”
“I’m not in the mood for shooting today,” Bryce replied evenly. To make his point, he broke open his shotgun and laid it over his arm. “And I have some business awaiting me back at the house. If you gentlemen will excuse me, Jenkins will look after you.”
He turned without waiting for their response and headed back toward the Prospect, his long strides carrying him away at a brisk pace. As he cleared the wood and topped the rise that overlooked the house, sitting snug and serene in its bright green skirt, his heart slammed in his breast.