by Nancy Butler
This was his home, the only true home he’d ever known. Even during the many years he’d spent away from it, Bryce Prospect had remained a haven in his dreams. In spite of the bleak months after his mother’s death, in spite of the difficult years with his father, it was here he’d experienced the greatest joy.
And that joy had returned to him during this visit. The feeling of expectation and excitement. The sense that the world was a bright and happy place. Two things had brought that joy back to him—the knowledge that his brother still lived, and his growing feelings for Jemima Vale.
And therein lay the rub. Had Kip remained no more than a beloved ghost, Bryce might have been reinstated as the heir. He suspected the old man would have come about eventually. And then he would have had a prosperous estate to place at Jemima’s feet. He could take up the reins of his ancestral home and mellow into old age with his wife and children around him. He’d gladly have given up his life of dissipation in London; how could the lures of vice compare to the wonder of a life shared with Jemima?
But in gaining Kip, he had surely lost Jemima. She had been an earl’s daughter, was now an earl’s sister, and traveled in the world of literary and artistic royalty. He knew enough of her nature to believe that his past would weigh little with her, but there were other issues. There were things a man needed to offer the woman he wed. Stature and position. And wealth. And while he was by no means a pauper, Bryce knew that without his inheritance, his various business dealings would not be able to keep Jemima in pearl necklets or allow her the scope of travel she had grown accustomed to under her brother’s care.
“Bryce’s prospects don’t look good,” he muttered to himself, and then he laughed aloud. Lord, he was totally besotted if he was reduced to making bad puns.
At least he knew Kip was being looked after. There was some consolation in that. After he’d seen Armbruster off at dawn, Bryce had ridden to the Iron Duke and had a most satisfying early breakfast with a gentleman who was biding there. He’d made his choice—keeping Kip alive was paramount, regardless of how it affected his chances with Jemima.
He angled down the slope of the hill, the tails of his greatcoat lashing behind him as he headed for the kitchen entrance. As he walked, he pondered whether the things he did possess were enough to tempt Jemima away from her life with Troy. It was a questionable inventory—a sordid past, a tarnished soul, a hopeful heart, and a most enduring love.
Why not ask her if it’s enough? the voice of reason argued. At least allow her the courtesy of making up her own mind.
The notion intimidated him as much as it appealed to him. Because as skilled as he was at seduction, he was a rank novice when it came to courtship. But then he realized that he’d been wooing Jemima all along—his uncharacteristically noble behavior toward her was proof of that.
“I’ll do it,” he muttered as he went through the door. “And devil take the consequences.”
* * *
The library was cool and full of shadows. Jemima stepped cautiously into the room, her determination to unmask Bryce’s involvement with the murderer waxing and waning in turn. She recalled the old adage about curiosity and the cat, but she also remembered Plato’s essays on the virtues of knowledge. She weighted the proverb with the words of Plato, and Plato won.
Bryce’s slant-top desk was the natural place to begin her search. It was locked, but Jemima quickly overcame that obstacle by the judicious use of a hairpin. She rapidly sorted through the pile of estate papers and bills which had been shoved haphazardly into the cubbyholes, feeling the whole time like the worst sort of sneak.
But nothing looked at all suspicious. The shallow carved drawer in the center of the desk was also locked but, again, it proved no match for her hairpin.
A sheaf of crumpled, folded papers lay there, atop a jumble of pen points and wafer seals. She lifted the papers out, shut the drawer, and closed up the desk. Moving to the nearest window, she stood beside the oak Bible stand and unfolded them. The words, “Ode to Persephone,” danced before her eyes. It was Troy’s poem, the one that had been ripped from his notebook by the dead thief. The poem that everyone, including the Bow Street Runner, assumed was in the possession of the thief’s murderer.
She stood arrested in a posture of disbelieving shock. Until that moment she hadn’t truly believed Bryce could be involved in the murder, but now she held irrefutable proof. He had to be in league with the bearded man, and maybe even—dear Lord—with the French spies, as well.
No wonder he’d insisted that Lovelace stay at the Prospect, she reflected wretchedly. Where better to keep an eye on the only person who could identify his accomplice?
As the reality sank in, Jemima felt herself growing light-headed. She reeled sideways against the Bible stand. The heavy, Moroccan-bound Bible began a gradual slide off the angled top. Jemima watched its slow descent with horrified eyes—a book that size would sound like a thunderclap when it hit the parqueted floor. With a muffled oomph, she caught it in her arms just before it cleared the ledge.
She hefted the book against her chest and was about to set it back on the stand when she saw the brass key lying upon the aged oak. She removed it before she replaced the Bible and then stood for a moment tapping it against her palm. It was too large to fit in the desk’s keyhole, and she gazed narrow-eyed about the room, wondering what other secrets the library might offer.
The mahogany cabinets beneath the bookshelves had distinct possibilities. The first four she searched were unlocked and held a collection of musty papers dating back to the previous century. The fifth cabinet was locked, however, and she was not surprised when her key opened the door. Kneeling on the carpet, she drew out the tooled leather box, holding her breath as she lifted the embossed lid.
“Books,” she muttered. No letters from France, no naval plans, nothing whatsoever incriminating. Not that she needed anything more than the poem, now tucked in her bodice, to damn Bryce. She picked up the top book on the pile. The Secrets of the Hindi, it proclaimed in a gilt script. Some sort of travel book, she thought, as she opened the cover.
“Good Lord!” was all she could utter when she saw the first illustration.
The hand-colored picture showed an exotically garbed couple, with their bodies entwined in a manner that Jemima knew had to be anatomically impossible. The subsequent drawings were similarly lurid—portraying a variety of contorted couplings in shocking detail. She held her hands up to her burning cheeks. This was far beyond her ability to assimilate—her scant knowledge of what men and women did together in the dark did not allow for these erotic, sensual poses. Surely proper English gentlemen did not expect their partners to disport themselves in such a manner. It was unthinkable.
But as she continued to look through the books, powerless against her own curiosity, her blood began to heat. As horrified as she was by Bryce’s link with the murderer, her body was still in his thrall. She wondered with a sigh what it would be like to reenact these provocative poses with him, a man skilled and practiced and so sublimely—
She heard footsteps in the hall—she’d again left the door ajar—and quickly dropped the books into the box, shoved it into the cabinet, and shut the door. As she scrambled to her feet, she saw that one slim volume still lay on the rug. She swept the hem of her skirt over it just as Bryce came into the room.
“I thought you were off shooting,” she said in a strained voice, unable to meet his eyes.
He shrugged. “I left Troy and his friends happily tramping after my father’s dogs. I came back because I wanted to talk to you.” He started toward her across the carpet.
“I’m afraid I don’t feel much like talking,” she said coolly. “I have a bit of a headache, in fact.”
Another gentleman would have begged her pardon and gone off about his business. But Bryce just came closer and cocked his head. “You are looking pale, Jem. Has Lovelace chattered you into a megrim? Perhaps you should sit on the couch and put your feet up.” He offered his arm to h
er.
Jemima grit her teeth. If she moved even one inch, he would see the book peeking from under her hem. “I was looking for something to read,” she said. “Something restful.” With a languid motion she waved to the stack of books behind her. And prayed he would take the hint and leave.
“Or perhaps you have already chosen something.” As he spoke he leaned down and retrieved the book from beneath her hem. “This might be a bit…um, warm for your taste.” He looked at the book’s title and his eyebrows rose. “Definitely too warm.” He knelt down and returned the book to the cabinet, and then held out his hand without looking up at her. “The key,” he said.
She dropped it into his palm as though it were a red hot ingot.
“Thank you,” he murmured as he relocked the door. When he rose, his eyes held more than a hint of rebuke. “I believe an explanation is in order, Jemima.”
She put up her chin. “I choose to say nothing at present.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “You sound as though you were in a court of law. I merely want to know why you have been poking around in my private things. Feeling bored?” His voice took on a honeyed tone. “Maybe I can relieve your boredom.” He raised a hand to her face, stroking one finger along her cheek.
She drew back with a hiss.
His eyes widened and his voice lost all its seductiveness. “What is it, Jem? Lord, you look ready to swoon.” He moved even closer and she had to prevent herself from shrinking back.
“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I’m just a bit upset. You see, I met the magistrate at church—he told me that Sir Richard has ordered Mr. Fletch to abandon his investigation.”
Bryce looked thoughtful. “It appears Sir Richard’s playing a deep game.”
He’s not the only one, she wanted to cry out. “I haven’t told Lovelace yet,” she said. “But I think, since Sir Richard doesn’t believe the murderer is a threat any longer, that she and I should remove to the inn.”
Bryce took hold of her wrist. “Don’t be daft. Sir Richard’s edict only proves that he doesn’t want a Runner nosing about in Admiralty business. Not that Mr. Fletch appears to be much of an investigator.”
Her mouth tightened. “In that case, I imagine you would be grateful for his ineptitude.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked in a low voice.
Jemima realized she was about to let her fear and her anger at him overcome her prudence. “Nothing,” she said more calmly. “I can’t think why I said such a thing. And yes, you are right… I believe I will go upstairs and rest awhile.” She looked meaningfully at his hand, which still encircled her wrist.
“Not until you tell me what you meant about Mr. Fletch.” He tightened his hold.
“Bryce—” she said warningly.
“Tell me. Tell me why you are behaving like a skittish foal and why you won’t look me in the eyes.” His hand drifted from her wrist to her cheek. “Tell me what is troubling you, Jemima.”
Her head twitched back, away from his fingers. Even now, even in the midst of her shock over his apparent treason, she knew she could not prevent herself from responding to his touch.
He observed her for a moment and then said, “Are you cross because I went out shooting? You’ll be happy to know I never even raised my gun.” He offered her a lazy grin, which was met with stony displeasure.
Jemima knew she couldn’t keep the truth from him for long. It was one of the remarkable things about Bryce—she felt she could tell him anything. Anything. And perhaps there was a logical explanation for why he had Troy’s poem in his desk. Though for the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single one.
“I believe you know who the murderer is,” she whispered hoarsely.
Bryce didn’t school his features quickly enough. Jemima caught the swift expression of startled surprise that tightened his jaw. “What nonsense is this?” he asked in a voice of controlled caution.
“Can you deny that you know who killed the Frenchman?”
As he started to reply, Jemima raised one hand in warning. “Tread carefully, Bryce. You vowed last night that you would never lie to me.”
His mouth closed and compressed into a thin line, and she swore she could hear his teeth grind.
“Then I will toss your own words back at you—” he said bluntly. “I choose to say nothing at present.”
“Because you can’t deny that you are in league with the man,” she observed grimly.
“I won’t dignify such a ridiculous accusation with a denial,” he said. “What reason can you have to accuse me? Haven’t I aided the investigation? Haven’t I kept Lovelace safe?” His voice grew insistent as he grasped her by the arms. “How can you condemn me so easily…after last night?”
She shook off his hands and stepped back. “Do you think this is easy for me, Bryce? To discover the man I… I trusted is an accomplice to murder. And maybe even to treason.”
“Damn it, Jemima!” he said with a fierce scowl. “I am not an accomplice to anything.”
“Liar!” she spat.
“It is not a lie,” he said, running a hand through his already windblown hair. His temper was starting to rouse as it had when Kip had accused him of trafficking with the spies. How had his reputation as a rake given people—especially those he was close to—such a mistrust of his character? Just because a man hankered after women, it didn’t follow that he would sell out his country for a handful of louis d’or.
He bit back his anger and said slowly, “There are things afoot here, things I am not at liberty to reveal to anyone.” Her expression still challenged him. “Ah, Jem, let this alone for now…until I am free to tell you the truth. I am on the side of right in this, you must believe me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are a cozening libertine, who lies to women as soon as look at them.”
“Yes,” he said. “I have been a libertine and even a knave at times. But before God, I have never raised a hand against my country. And I have never lied, Jem. Not to you.”
She drew a breath, and then said in a flat, empty voice, “Simmy Wilcox is dead these ten years. Drowned in a vat of ale.”
Her words hung in the air between them for several seconds. Bryce saw the resolve in her face and in the remote emptiness of her eyes he read the demise of his own bright future.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “He is dead. And so I thought him a safe scapegoat. I lied only to keep you from fretting. I… I can’t believe that one lie has made you think me such a villain.”
“It’s been my experience that one lie begets a thousand. But no, it wasn’t only that Banbury tale you spun for me, Bryce, that makes me think ill of you.”
“So what other misdeeds have you laid at my door?” he asked sourly.
She drew the notebook pages from her bodice and held them up. He didn’t attempt to take them from her; he knew well enough what was contained on those pages. Troy’s cursed “Ode to Persephone.” He vowed he’d never read another line of poetry as long as he lived.
He turned from her and crossed to his desk, levering the slant top open a few inches just to satisfy himself that she had purloined the papers from the drawer. “You’ve been busy, Jemima,” he said in a voice of ice. “I wonder you didn’t ransack my bedroom. Ah, I can see your blush from across the room. So even my most private chamber did not escape your prying eyes.”
“Your private chamber, indeed,” she parroted with disdain. “I fancy a rake’s bedroom is the most public room in his house.”
He bowed with great irony, acknowledging her riposte. “I stand corrected. You of all people should know about the goings-on in my bedchamber.”
She gasped in shock. “I assure you, I will make every effort to forget anything about that place.”
Except the forged painting, she added silently. She’d keep that little tidbit to herself for now.
“I’m leaving now for the Iron Duke,” she said. “And I’m taking Lovelace with me.”
“
That’s a foolish notion,” he said irritably. “You’d do better to remain here until tomorrow. You can leave for London in the morning.”
She snorted. “Yes, I expected you’d say that. But you have no right to question my wisdom.”
“Oh, don’t I?” he muttered as he re-crossed the room. “You’ve just proven how unwise you can be.”
“In what way?”
He snatched the notebook pages from her hands and rattled them under her nose. “Only the greatest nitwit in the world would have shown these to a man she thought was in league with spies and murderers. What if I were those things, Jemima? Do you think I would blithely let you leave here, carrying away the evidence that would damn me?”
“I… I didn’t think—” She took a tiny step back. “I only wanted to—”
“Here, take the blasted things!” He thrust the pages into her hand, forcing her fingers to close around them. “Now does that prove to you that I’m not in league with the confounded spies? No?… I see that nothing short of a good shaking will remove this idiotic notion from your brain.”
“Don’t!” she cried, pushing his hands away. “What else can I believe, Bryce? Everything points to you—the stolen papers, your lies to protect the bearded man. Tell me, please…what am I to believe?’
His voice lowered. “You could start by believing in me. But no, Lady Jemima Vale doesn’t stray from the path of her narrow convictions.” His bitterness was like a blade. “God forbid she should take a chance on something, or take a man’s word on faith alone.”
She stood unmoving, her eyes huge in her pale face. “I… I’m trying…”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any longer.” He motioned abruptly to the door. “Go,” he said wearily, drawing in a long breath. “Take yourself off to the Tattie and Snip. Lord knows you’ve been hankering to do just that thing since you first set foot in my house. And take the Tragic Muse with you. I promise you there is no danger to her. There never has been any threat from the murderer.”