A Rake's Midnight Kiss (8 page)

She lifted the jewel, her hands sure, almost careless. His belly clenched with conflicting impulses. The urge to grab the girl. The urge to grab the jewel.

“A wonderful old lady bequeathed it to me. She was a disciple of Mary Wollstonecraft and until you, the only person to guess that I wrote most of Papa’s published works. It’s a family heirloom.”

Damn it, it certainly was. And not one that Amelia, Viscountess Bellfield, had any business handing on. Richard gritted his teeth against informing Genevieve that the jewel belonged to him.

“She must have been fond of you.” He hoped to hell his voice didn’t sound as strangled to Genevieve as in his ears. Patience, he reminded himself, patience. He’d get the jewel off her in good time.

“I loved her dearly too.” Genevieve’s admiration for Lady Bellfield was audible. “She was a noted bluestocking and owned an impressive collection of books and antiquities.”

“One would think she’d keep something so valuable in the family.”

“She’d had a falling out with the Harmsworths. She particularly disliked the current baronet. Some family scandal made him unfit to hold the title.”

Despite himself, Richard winced. The hell of it was that the disgrace never died. Call him a slow learner, but he now understood that it never would, whoever possessed the Harmsworth Jewel. Which made him no less determined to restore the trinket to Polliton Place, the family seat in Norfolk. It belonged to the head of the Harmsworth family. And, bastardy or no, that was him.

He’d always liked Great Aunt Amelia, for all her fearsome reputation. A shock to discover that because he was a bastard, she couldn’t abide him. Old anger tightened his gut. Anger and shame.

Luckily Genevieve studied the jewel, not his reactions. “That was a condition of inheriting. Under no circumstances
was Lady Bellfield’s great-nephew Richard Harmsworth to obtain the jewel.”

God rot Great Aunt Amelia for an interfering old witch.

“I doubt the executors would prosecute if you sold it.” Richard tried to sound disingenuous. Genevieve cast him a questioning glance that indicated he’d failed. Hardly surprising. Genuine innocence had been a casualty of childhood bullying. “I imagine you’d get a good price.”

“Strange that you say that. A few months ago, Sir Richard discovered I had the jewel. He’s pestering me to sell.”

“At a bargain price?” He’d offered her a fortune. He waited to hear if any amount might change her mind. At least he now understood why his agents had failed. Part of him admired Genevieve’s loyalty to Aunt Amelia, while another part cursed this complication.

“Money seemed no object. Odd when Lady Bellfield indicated Sir Richard wasn’t interested in family history.”

Little do you know, sweetheart.
“The jewel is very beautiful.”

“And reputedly powerful. There’s a myth that Alfred the Great presented it to a Harmsworth ancestor for foiling a Viking assassination. The jewel passed from Harmsworth father to son, confirming the heir’s right to inherit. Such tales abound in old families. That’s one fascinating element of my research.”

“Perhaps you should sell.” A critical light in his eyes, he surveyed the shabby room. “Think what you could do.”

She shrugged. “I owe Lady Bellfield better return for her generosity.”

Damn, why must Genevieve be such a stickler? “Did she forbid any sale?”

If there was a ban on disposing of the thing altogether, he’d have to steal it. Which meant he could never display it openly. With every moment, his quest became more tangled.

“It’s mine unconditionally, as long as I never sell to Richard Harmsworth or his heirs.” She paused. “I hope that my article creates opportunities for me. I’d only sell the jewel out of dire necessity.”

Relief flooded him. There was still a chance he could buy it. “Once your article comes out, people will know you wrote your father’s pieces.”

Irritation lit her gaze. “My father’s work has been devoted entirely to the high Middle Ages. He isn’t renowned as a Dark Ages specialist. Any similarities in style will be credited to my father being my teacher.”

Unable to resist any longer, he reached out. “May I see it?”

Her hand curled around the jewel as if she mistrusted his intentions. By heaven, nothing was wrong with the girl’s instincts. “It’s very fragile.”

“I’ll be careful.” He had more reason to respect the jewel than any man in England.

She sighed and he thought she might refuse. But after a hesitation, she passed it across.

The breath jammed in his throat and he lowered his eyes to conceal his possessive excitement. The gold was warm from her hands. What an intimate sensation, like touching her skin instead of inanimate metal. The jewel was unexpectedly heavy, as though it carried the weight of the centuries. Holding this heirloom left him surprisingly moved. Finally he claimed his right to the Harmsworth name.

He rose and stepped toward the window on mortifyingly shaky legs to inspect the piece in the light. And also to escape Genevieve’s all-encompassing stare. She mustn’t guess this moment’s significance.

The drawings he’d seen didn’t do the object justice. The jewel was about five inches long. A chased gold handle
shaped like a dragon supported a gold oval containing an enamel image of a saint with large dark eyes like a child’s drawing. It was a thousand years old; beautiful, uncanny, unique. The blue and red enamels were as vivid, he was sure, as the day they were fired.

Here in Oxfordshire, he played at finding the past as fascinating as the present. But touching this tangible link to generations of Harmsworths, he sensed something of Genevieve’s passion for history. The need to guard this talisman was the most powerful emotion he’d ever felt. His hand closed around the relic. Every atom in his body revolted at the idea of relinquishing it.

He forced himself to look toward the woman, the woman he came to want almost as much as he wanted the jewel. “Shouldn’t you lock it away in a strongbox or a bank?”

Genevieve looked troubled. “I need it for my work.”

“The article is important enough to risk this priceless artifact?”

“My whole future depends on it.” For once he had no doubt that she revealed her soul. “If I establish an independent reputation, I can support myself as an antiquarian, doing everything that I currently do for my father. I’ve told you that I’ll never marry—a husband would constrain my pursuits—so I need an income.”

And, he guessed from what she didn’t say, a life away from the vicar.

Inconvenient it might be, but he couldn’t help admiring that she’d refused to sell the jewel to his agents. Ten thousand guineas would set her up in her own household for life. “Does Dr. Barrett know of your plans?”

Guilt shadowed her features. “I haven’t told him yet.”

“He won’t like the competition.”

She raised her head, a plea in her silvery eyes. “I want
to present everything as a fait accompli.” She paused. “You must think me unnatural.”

He smiled and moved closer. “It’s time you claimed your due.”

“Thank you.” She flushed and glanced to where he clutched the jewel as though his life depended upon it. Right now, mad as it was, he thought his life did.

Genevieve continued. “I’m surprised the thief last week didn’t take the jewel. Aside from the historical interest, it’s solid gold. I’ve thought over and over about what he hoped to find. Anyone can tell there’s no money in the house, so why break in? The jewel is the most valuable item we have. Yet outside the family and Lady Amelia’s solicitors, the only person who suspects it’s here is Sir Richard Harmsworth. If Sir Richard sent the thief for the jewel, the fellow must have seen it. It was sitting on the desk as clear as day.”

“Perhaps he was blinded by your beauty.” Richard wasn’t entirely joking, even as he cursed her clever brain for narrowing blame for the burglary down to his real self.

She sent him a quelling glance. “He wasn’t much of a thief. We haven’t found anything missing.”

Bloody hell. What a stupid mistake. He should have lifted something worthless from downstairs. A burglar fleeing empty-handed aroused unwelcome curiosity. Too late now. “Would you rather he’d stripped the vicarage?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She sounded uncomfortable. Did she recall that thrilling moment when he’d held her close? It haunted his dreams.

He braced his shoulders. “Will you sell it to me? I’ll double Sir Richard’s offer.”

Silence crashed down. Even his heart seemed to stop beating. Shocked silvery gray eyes focused on him and the hands she laid on the desk closed into fists.

Her reply seemed to take forever. “It’s not for sale.”

His relief made no sense. He was here for the jewel. Buying the bauble after a few days counted as a major victory. Or at least it should.

He forced himself to continue negotiations. “You’d be welcome to keep it until you’ve finished your article.”

She already shook her head. “Thank you, but no.”

So the game played on. He tried to tell himself that he was disappointed. Even he didn’t believe that was true. It was a long time since he’d found a woman as intriguing as he found Genevieve Barrett. He wasn’t ready to abandon her.

Her eyes sharpened. “Can I have the jewel back, please?”

Surrendering the jewel felt like treason. In the transaction, his hand grazed hers. She jerked back as if his touch burned. Heat shuddered through him.

Her gaze leaped to meet his and he read renewed wariness in her eyes. “You offer more than the jewel is worth.”

He shrugged and stared hard at her. “When I want something, I go to any length to get it.”

She paled. “You… scare me when you say such things.”

His eagerness threatened to send her fleeing in fright. If he wasn’t careful he’d lose both jewel and woman—it became increasingly inconvenient to remember that only a cad played fast and loose with a lady’s reputation.

He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t quite a cad. Or not yet.

“You mistake me. I merely found myself with a fancy to own a pretty thing.” Two pretty things, in fact. He adopted an innocent air as he stepped away from the desk to stretch ostentatiously. “I’m off for a ride before breakfast.”

“I trust you not to share anything we’ve discussed.” Unsurprisingly she regretted her confidences.

“You have my promise.” His carefree smile didn’t
extinguish the doubt in her expression. “I’ll see you later, Miss Barrett.”

Beneath his nonchalance, his thoughts were troubled. Nor had he conquered the turbulent emotions that had stirred when he’d touched the jewel. After this morning, he knew more about the jewel and he knew more about Genevieve, but everything he’d learned fouled his path.

A
s everyone sat in the parlor before dinner, Genevieve watched Mr. Evans from her place on the window seat as unwaveringly as she’d watch a cobra. He played some silly card game with her aunt, who would be his willing slave even without her unconcealed ambitions for marrying him to her niece.

Within ten minutes of his departure from her study this morning, Genevieve had realized her terrible mistake. Why, oh, why had she been so forthcoming? She didn’t trust Mr. Evans. She hadn’t trusted him from the moment she’d seen his too-handsome face. Now he knew her authorship and her hopes for the future. Her recklessness placed her firmly within his power. Would he use his knowledge against her?

Years of thankless devotion to her father had taught her that the last thing she wanted was to subject herself to another man’s will. That was why she’d never marry—she longed to use her talents for her own purposes. Any husband would expect her to accept the helpmeet role she’d adopted too long with her selfish parent. Mr. Evans guessing her
authorship wasn’t quite as onerous as submitting to a husband, but he still might try to influence her choices. Now that freedom beckoned, she could hardly bear that.

The vicar and Lord Neville swapped opinions over a table covered in folios. New acquisitions of his lordship’s, Genevieve supposed. She should be grateful that he shared his collection with the Barretts. But her charity with her father’s patron was in short supply. Since Mr. Evans’s arrival, Lord Neville had become a ubiquitous presence, like a grumpy rhinoceros guarding his territory. If she wasn’t tripping over one gentleman, she tripped over the other. She wished them both to perdition.