by Corwin, Amy
With her last ounce of strength, she forced a casual, disdainful smile. “And you know very little about the Archers, Mr. Dacy. I hope you can get some rest. I know I shall.”
Then she closed the door and rested her back against it briefly, hoping he had not noticed her trembling limbs.
Chapter Ten
The Banker Calls It
Chilton watched Miss Archer leave, tearing the warmth out of the room. He sighed and glanced over at the bed, worried about the old gentleman.
Too many men died after a small, seemingly irrelevant injury. The thought of John Archer dying because of a stupid gambling debt filled him with rage and a deep, frustrated sickness. He studied his patient with a worried gaze.
Archer lay propped up on a pile of pillows, eyes closed. A grimace pulled at his lips down, bracketing his mouth with deep lines.
“Don’t ever let a female rattle you, my boy, or you’ll lose the game,” Archer said suddenly. He twisted his mouth into a smile and laughed with a visible effort at lightness, although the sound shook hoarsely.
Chilton looked away and poured himself another glass of brandy. “Good advice.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about,” Archer added.
Taking a sip, he leaned back and asked in an attempt to match Archer's lightness, “And did you lose to a woman?”
“Oh, yes. Lost the deal and folded.” Archer shifted in bed. His blue-tinged eyelids squeezed shut as he winced with pain. He griped his bandaged arm with his good hand as his breath caught in his chest. When he got control of himself, he continued, “But it’s been worth it. Yes, indeed. My Lady Victoria is well worth the price. A diamond of the first water.”
A brief laugh escaped Chilton. “I never thought I'd hear you admit something like that.”
A warm, soft touch on his knee surprised him. He jerked upright, looked down, and then chuckled in relief.
At some point, Josephine had snuck into the bedroom. Hearing his laugh, she put her shaggy head on his lap, gazing up at him with soft eyes. He caressed one silky ear until she finally lay down and settled her heavy, warm head on his foot.
Would that all women were as easy to love and accepting as Josephine.
He settled back against the stiff cushions of the armchair, his glass in one hand and his cane—his friend’s stolen cane—in the other. Tapping it on the floor, he sank into disturbing thoughts of Miss Archer.
Miss Oriana Archer.
Miss bloody-minded, mistrusting Archer who seemed determined to paint him in the darkest hues possible and ferret out his secrets.
A bright flaring pain from the vicinity of his heart made him raise his glass too quickly. It hit his front teeth with a mellow ting. The physical aches of his body couldn’t overshadow his anger and bitter disappointment at her firm belief that he would break her uncle's arm.
How could she believe such a thing? She should know him better than that by now.
Then he forced his useless thoughts to a halt. There was no reason for her to trust him. In fact, she knew as little about him as his own family did.
No one knew him any longer, not since the death of his mother. Not even Squidgy, the earl whose cane Chilton held in his hand. And Great Britain—and the Foreign Secretary in particular—preferred he keep it that way.
So Chilton Dacy remained a drunken, brawling aristocrat with no apparent ambition. In that persona, he served as a handy tool for missions the Foreign Office preferred not to advertise.
He sighed and tilted his head back again, overcome with a sense of futility and exhaustion. He felt like a candle burned down to the stub. Time was running out. He could sense it in the increasing tension aching throughout his body.
If he was to find Violet’s vowel, he had to do it soon and get out.
A grim smile slowly curved his mouth. Perhaps he needed some diversionary tactics. Perhaps he could distract the family by showing an interest in something other than the note hidden somewhere in this very room.
He thought about Miss Archer's warm glance and pouting mouth. Her overbite nearly drove him to distraction.
She would be a lovely diversion.
How far could he push her before she tossed him out on his ear? Going that far wouldn’t serve his purpose, despite the attraction of trying it anyway.
Gazing into his glass, the notion made his pulse hammer in his throat. The tightening sensation echoed deeply within his groin. He shifted in his chair.
Despite her confusion and hasty exit from his room once before, he realized she was vulnerable and perhaps a bit lonely. And she wanted him. He remembered the way her warm face flushed with embarrassment at the sight of his naked chest and the flicker of desire in her eyes.
Then cold reason got the better of him.
There was always the possibility she would raise the bid and call him on it, to use an Archer turn of phrase.
What would he do then? Seduce her just to keep them all distracted while he searched for Violet's vowel? Even he couldn’t stomach dishonoring her that way, despite what he thought he saw in her gaze.
Not to mention his father’s reaction if he created a new scandal. Although the ensuing turmoil might serve to overshadow his stepmother’s loss of Ned’s inheritance. It might even end the lunacy about an engagement to Miss Burlington.
A pair of laughing, brown eyes flickered in the depths of his brandy.
Miss Archer.
Then a cold lump congealed in his throat. Desire could easily be replaced by disgust and disappointment if she discovered he was only interested in his stepmother’s vowel. Miss Archer would take it badly, no doubt. She cared too much and gave her heart too freely. He’d seen the way she took in strays of all kinds, both four and two-legged, including himself.
In fact, she was much too soft-hearted. She desperately needed someone ruthless enough to protect and defend her. There were too many men willing to take advantage of a woman’s compassion and friendly interest.
Men exactly like him.
He threw back the contents of his glass and let it burn a harsh path down his throat. Then he poured another drink, trying to shut out the low chuckles coming from the vicinity of Archer’s pillow.
“What’s so amusing?” he asked.
“Why, nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t suppose you’d care to pour me another glass? I rather think I'm more in need of it than you.” Archer moved restlessly on his stack of pillows. A sudden, gasping frown turned his face crimson. An agonized frown pushed the smile from his face.
Archer was sweating again. The color seeped from his face as if his broken arm worked insidiously to drain the vitality out of him.
“The doctor said not to give you any more alcohol.” He glanced at the bottle and then back to Archer’s gray face.
God, what if the beating was worse than I thought?
“Nonsense.”
“Why don’t we talk until you fall asleep? Keep your mind occupied.” Chilton rubbed the scar on his forehead, feeling a sullen throb start behind his left eye.
There didn’t appear to be enough brandy left in the bottle to drown the pain tonight. Not with the additional guilt over his position with the Archers, and his inappropriate thoughts about Miss Archer.
Archer’s good hand plucked at the coverlet. He scowled at Chilton before eyeing at the decanter. “Another drop won’t hurt me—just one more.”
He grabbed the brandy and placed it on the floor next to him, out of sight. “Forget it. Tell me again what happened. Who was that fellow, Red?”
“I’m not going to forget about the brandy by talking about that idiot, if that’s what you think.”
A low chuckle breathed through his lips. “Well, that’s too bad because you aren’t getting any more. Who is Red?”
“Red,” Archer replied. A sharp laugh escaped him before he groaned and clutched his arm. “Damn, don’t do that.”
“Make you laugh?”
A grin split his face, the color improving slightly. “N
o, remind me of that idiot with the cudgel.”
“Sorry. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“There's not much to tell. His name is Red.” Another smile followed Archer's words. “'The Red Death’, to be precise.”
“‘Red Death’?” He couldn’t help laughing. “Who's called something like that?”
“I believe he was originally Red Smythe. But he changed his name when he realized even a blockhead can win a boxing match if he can take a few punches. And occasionally gets lucky with one of his own.”
“He’s a friend of yours, then? Strange way of showing it.”
“Well, we’re not precisely friends. Merely acquaintances who rather infrequently do business.”
“Was that a business disagreement? You mentioned owing him five thousand pounds.”
The question hung in the air for so long he assumed Archer had fallen asleep. The thought was almost a relief. He wasn't sure he wanted any more answers tonight.
Finally, Archer took a long, deep breath. He ran his good hand gingerly over his nose and rubbed his mouth. “We had a minor disagreement.”
“Five thousand pounds worth. And a vowel. That's quite a disagreement. Why not just give him what he wants?”
“Because highway robbery isn’t paying as well as it used to. And I refuse to gamble away my wife’s property. It just isn’t done—not good form. Not at all.” He rubbed the hand sticking out of the splint as if it was cold. “Times have changed. I must confess myself disappointed if one can’t even get a decent diamond stickpin from an earl. In my day, no peer would even have considered stepping outside his door without at least a few hundred pounds in baubles. Why, only five years ago I’d have expected to come away with at least two hundred pounds from even the paltriest baron at an evening’s end.” He shook his head and ran a hand over his pallid lips again. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to pour me just a drop of that extraordinarily fine brandy?”
“Quite sure. If you don't have the money, you could have given up the vowel. Why hang on to it? It can’t be worth your life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. A lady begged me to hold the vowel. Just until she had a chance to speak to her husband and acquire the funds to redeem it. I accepted the agreement. You can't break your word to a lady. Now are you positive you wouldn’t care to pour just a tablespoon of that lovely nectar into this glass?”
“No, I would not!” he exclaimed, feeling nonsensically irritated at Archer and generally out of sorts.
How could Archer use an excuse of honor to hang onto a vowel dishonorably gotten? And all for the dismal reason of money.
Everything came down to money.
Archer eyed him and then turned his head the other way as if trying to get comfortable. Chilton felt grim as his cynicism grew deeper roots, twisting into him.
What did Archer mean, 'he had an agreement with Violet'?
He should have just handed the damn vowel over to Red and made it easier for all of them. Chilton preferred to beat 'The Red Death' senseless to get the vowel back instead of tangling with the Archers. Then he could walk away from this entire affair.
If it wasn't too late already to escape with his heart—and mind—intact.
Then the empty, gut-clenching sense of impending disaster hit him. His hair-splitting morality was growing thin. He didn't know how much longer he could withstand the temptation to pour his secrets out to Miss Archer and rest within the warm embrace of her arms.
Except he doubted she would offer him any comfort if she knew the truth. The disappointment and pain in her eyes when she believed he had actually broken her uncle’s arm gave him an inkling of her reaction if she knew.
Appearances notwithstanding, he was not the Archers’ friend.
In fact, he was no better than a thief.
So it was time to get Violet's note and leave. And if he failed, his father would have to forget thoughts of revenge. Or appeal to the law if he had the nerve to withstand the resulting scandal.
Chilton would find a way to pay for his brother's loss of the farm. Because he would rather take a sword in the belly than see charges pressed against John Archer.
Nearly an hour later, he still had no rational plan. But he did notice Archer had finally fallen into an uneasy slumber.
Easing his foot out from under Josephine’s head, he got clumsily to his feet. The throbbing pain in his leg made him bite back an expletive. He stood still, letting his body grow used to the agony before he tried to move.
He glanced at Archer to make sure he remained asleep. The older man slumbered, albeit uneasily. Chilton scanned the bedroom.
The vowel had to be here somewhere in this room.
He took the first, tentative step toward the chest in the far corner.
Behind him, he heard a low, creaking noise. The door opened.
“Mr. Dacy,” Miss Archer whispered, peeking around the doorframe before entering.
She had changed into a serviceable brown gown with long sleeves. A white linen cap balanced precariously on her thick curls, ready to fly off at the least movement. Her eyes were circled with exhaustion and shadowy in the faint candlelight. He moved toward her, wanting to touch her in reassurance and comfort. However, he stopped abruptly, convinced she would reject even the lightest touch.
Her tiredness was no concern of his.
Whether he succeeded in his mission or not, his future stretched out cold and bleak without the strange friendship he had developed with the Archers. In all likelihood, he would end up married to the loathsome Miss Burlington and never see Miss Oriana Archer again.
Moving toward the chair, she stooped to pat Josephine on the head. The dog’s tail wagged briefly before it placed its nose on its paws and closed its eyes again, snuffling in satisfaction.
She glanced at her uncle, her face tense with concern.
Then she turned to study him, her eyes dark under heavy lids she could barely keep open. “Were you coming to get me? I’ll relieve you now and sit with my uncle for an hour or two. It's awfully good of you to keep him company.”
“I'll stay. I’m not tired.”
“Don’t be absurd. I can’t abide stubborn men. Go to bed. My sister promised to relieve me at four. I shan’t have long to wait.”
“Miss Helen is relieving you?”
Miss Archer studied him intently. “Yes, Miss Helen. You think she's a spoiled, inconsiderate girl, don’t you? Well, you're wrong. She doesn’t sleep well—she's worried about the Season. And your comments didn’t help.” She waved her hand as if she expected him to interrupt. “She's always up by five, anyway. Where did you imagine the flowers in every room come from each morning? Fairies? Or perhaps you hadn’t even noticed the vase in your room?”
“I thought you—”
“Me? No. I like my roses very well, but I prefer them on the bush. I see no purpose in bringing flowers indoors only to watch them die. But no matter, go and retire. There's nothing more for you to do tonight.”
“Miss Archer, I want to—”
“Please, Mr. Dacy. It’s been a frightful day. We’re all tired. I’m sure things will look brighter in the morning. Do try to get some rest and don't worry.”
Pain pulsated from his brow to the back of his head, twanging with each heartbeat. His brain was on fire. He rubbed the scar on his head, wondering if he dared take the bottle of brandy.
Noticing the gesture, Miss Archer stepped closer and pulled his hand away from his forehead. “My elder brother often had headaches, Mr. Dacy. I believe he left a packet of powder with me before he…” She paused and cleared her throat. “Before his last trip to the Continent. Would you like to try it?”
“No. Not on top of the brandy.” He hadn’t felt suicidal since meeting Archer, he realized sardonically. What a time to discover that life wasn’t all ugly desperation and bitterness.
She reached up and touched him lightly on the scar. He jerked his head back, startled and annoyed by her cool touch. He glared at her, sudden
ly mistrustful.
Her eyes crinkled in the corners with laughter at his reaction. She shook her head before she glided around to his back, gripping his arm to prevent him from circling with her.
Before he realized her intentions, she reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. Cool fingertips rubbed his neck and scalp.
“Miss Archer!” He tried to step away.
“Stop moving. I used to do this for Andrew. My brother. He said it helped. If you don’t want the powder, maybe this will loosen the pain.”
Her firm fingers kneaded the tight skin under his hair and then gently massaged his temples, easing the tension. He closed his eyes, mesmerized by the soothing feel of her rhythmic touch. The gentle pressure created a cocoon of warmth and ease around him.
He relaxed further and felt his breath grow harsh as her breasts sporadically pressed against his back when she leaned forward. Heat flooded him. It radiated from the center of his back, spreading through his tense, tired muscles and ending in his groin.
When she gripped his shoulders suddenly, his eyes flew open.
“I apologize, but you nearly fell over, Mr. Dacy. You’re exhausted. But at least tell me, does your headache feel better?”
To his astonishment, it did.
The sizzling line of pain was gone.
And in the deep silence, he grew very conscious of how relaxed he was, and how much he wanted her to continue pressing against him, sending shivers of desire and warmth through him. She mesmerized him with her beauty as she stepped around to face him. The mellow light from the fire bathed her face and neck and highlighted her cheekbones and brow with gold.
His gaze dropped to her face and her full mouth.
“Mr. Dacy?” She backed up a step. Her hands plucked the sides of her brown dress.
“Thank you. My headache is gone.”
She nodded. “Good. Go get some rest. If I know my uncle, he’ll be up tomorrow as if nothing has happened. He'll make a fine nuisance of himself for as long as he can. And we‘ll all suffer, however, with his arm in that sling.” Her face reflected warmth laced with humor and love for her uncle as she spoke.