A Wicked Gentleman (30 page)

Her own pleasure this time came purely from his, from the knowledge of this amazing female power. She sat back on her heels and looked down the length of his body. He seemed thinner, and the lines of fatigue were deeply etched around his black-shadowed eyes.

“What
have
you been doing to yourself?” she asked, running her hands across his chest as she kissed his eyes. “You're worn to the bone, my love.”

For an answer, he put his hands at her waist and eased her away from him. “Is there any more hot water? This is getting chilly.”

Cornelia accepted that for the moment she was going to get no answers. “There's one more jug. I used the other spares to rinse my hair.” She stood up and stepped out of the bath in a shower of drops. A towel was warming on the rack in front of the fire, and she wrapped herself up swiftly, conscious of the cold air on her wet skin. She picked up the remaining jug and poured the contents over his head.

Harry had not been expecting it and spluttered in indignant surprise as it cascaded over him.

“You might as well wash your hair while you're about it,” she said, tossing him the soap that was on the floor beside the bath.

He took the advice and Cornelia dried herself before wrapping herself up in her thick nightrobe. She sat on the chest at the foot of the bed and watched his ablutions. Questions ran riot in her head, but she knew she had to tread carefully. She felt she ought to have the right to ask her questions, and yet she knew instinctively that Harry had not conferred that right upon her. But she was going to ask them anyway.

“Towel,” he demanded, standing up, clicking his fingers in mock command.

“At your service, sir,” she said, running another long, appreciative look along his body. He was a very fine specimen of a man, she decided. Long and lean, muscular without being obviously so, his strength was implied rather than displayed. His slim waist and hips, the length of powerful but equally slim thighs, were those of an athlete.

“Nell, I'm freezing,” he said plaintively. “I'm delighted to offer you such a vision of masculine beauty, but the part of my anatomy that should most concern you is shriveling with cold.”

Cornelia laughed. “Oh, we can't have that,” she said, fetching another warmed towel from the rack. She tossed it around his shoulders before going to rummage in the armoire. “I have another nightrobe somewhere in here. It may be a bit moth-eaten, but it'll serve…ah, yes, here it is.” Triumphantly, she flourished a velvet robe. She picked a little doubtfully at the rather tatty lace. “It'll probably be a bit short on you.”

“I should think that's the least of its problems,” Harry said, regarding the garment with disfavor. “If you don't mind, I'll settle for a dry towel.”

“Oh, very well.” Cornelia took another towel from the linen press and handed it to him.

He wrapped it securely around his waist and surveyed the general disarray in front of the fire. “I think, if I take up those soaked sheets and put them in the tub, I can move the whole thing into a corner, and it'll be a little less messy in here.”

“You can blame yourself for the mess,” Cornelia said. “If you hadn't insisted on sharing my bath…”

“Ah, but wasn't the sharing pleasant?” he said, catching her hand and pulling her swiftly towards him so that she was held tight against his bare chest. He pushed up her chin, running a fingertip over her mouth, his lively green eyes flashing like fireflies as he smiled down at her.

“It certainly was,” she said. “Well worth a wet floor.”

“Good, then will you find me something to eat and a glass of wine or cognac, or anything, while I try to tidy up in here?”

“Are you hungry then?”

“Famished,” he said. “I don't remember when I last ate.”

Cornelia decided, despite the opening, to leave her questions until later. “I'll be back in ten minutes.”

She heard Harry lock the door behind her and smiled slightly. Harry, of course, did not know that their secret was out, as least as far as her friends were concerned. But perhaps it was a wise precaution, she reflected. Livia and Aurelia weren't the only occupants of the house. What she didn't know, of course, was that Lester would ensure that no one came near her bedchamber while Viscount Bonham was in it.

Cornelia took the back stairs down to the kitchen, thinking up excuses for her presence there at this time of night. The only person there was Lester, still sitting beside the fire with his ale and his newspaper.

He jumped to his feet as she came in. “What can I do for you, my lady?”

“Oh, nothing, Lester, thank you. For some reason I'm hungry.” She wandered towards the pantry. “I think there was a veal and ham pie in here. I have the most absurd craving for veal and ham pie.”

“Quite so, m'lady,” Lester said solemnly. “I'll fetch a tray. Would a bite of bread and cheese appeal too?”

“Uh…yes, possibly, thank you,” she replied, wondering what on earth he must think of her wanting so much food after she'd eaten a more than adequate dinner a couple of hours before.

She found the veal and ham pie, contemplated cutting a thick slice, then decided to take the whole thing. The raised crust looked so appetizing, and Harry looked as if he needed feeding up.

“You'll be wanting a glass of claret to wash that down with, I daresay, ma'am,” Lester observed, setting bread and cheese on a tray and taking the pie from her.

“Well, yes, now you mention it, that would be lovely.” Cornelia said. “But I think we need to open a new bottle.”

“Right away, m'lady.” Lester took a bottle from the rack and pulled the cork. He set the bottle and a glass on the tray beside the food. “I'll carry this up for you.”

“No…no, I can manage, Lester.” Hastily Cornelia picked up the tray. It
was
both awkward and heavy. “I'll take the back stairs, it's quicker.”

“Tell you what, ma'am, why don't I carry it up the stairs for you,” Lester offered, watching with some alarm as the contents of the tray slipped a little, dangerously unbalancing it.

That couldn't do any harm, reflected Cornelia, relinquishing her burden with a word of thanks. She preceded Lester up the back stairs, wondering how he had managed to become such an indispensable fixture in the house. Even Morecombe deferred to him on occasion, and certainly offered no objections to his presence.

At the head of the stairs, she took the tray from him with a whispered word of thanks. Lester stood at the top of the stairs, watching her somewhat unsteady but at least soundless progress along the corridor. When she reached the door she tapped it with her bare foot and it opened instantly. Only then did Lester return to his paper.

“Ah, now that looks like a feast to invite a man to,” Harry said appreciatively, taking the tray from her. “There's only one glass.”

“Well, Lester was in the kitchen, and I couldn't very well explain two glasses.”

“Oh, no, I suppose you couldn't,” Harry murmured with a smile. “We can share a glass.” He set the tray down on the table.

Cornelia looked around her bedchamber in surprise. The detritus of her bath had disappeared, and the room was set to rights once more, even Harry's discarded clothing neatly placed on the chest at the foot of the bed. “What did you do with the bath?”

“Behind the fire screen,” he said, slicing into the pie.

The screen that ordinarily shielded a sitter from the heat of the fire was now in a corner of the chamber. “You'd make a good housekeeper,” Cornelia said, pouring wine.

Harry sat down on the chair by the table and took a large bite of the pie. Cornelia sat by the fire and sipped the wine, before passing him the glass. Nothing was said for long minutes as Harry ate with the concentrated appetite of a starving man. He finished the pie and turned his attention to the bread and cheese. But at last the tray was empty, and he sighed with repletion.

“A bath and food…now I'm whole again.” He stood up, stretching luxuriously, before turning to Cornelia, holding out his hands in invitation. “Shall we repair to bed, ma'am?”

Cornelia hesitated. She wanted to make love again, it was as if she couldn't get enough of his body, but her mind was finally asserting its independence in this business. She could not…would not…give herself again without some explanation for his lies.

He looked at her in puzzlement, his arms still open in invitation, while she sat unmoving. “What is it, Nell?” His hands fell to his sides. He appeared relaxed, but the tension in the room would have cut diamonds.

“Was it family business that took you out of town?” she inquired, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. “Something to do with your motherless nephews and nieces, perhaps?”

His eyes narrowed and he rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. He shook his head in irritation. “I might have known that would come back and bite me.”

So he wasn't going to deny it. Cornelia felt some relief. “But why would you tell such an obvious lie? Of course you must have known it would come out at some point. Do you really think me so ingenuous, so naive, as to accept at face value everything I'm told?”

“No,” he said. “But what you're forgetting, dear girl, is that when I told you that little untruth, I had no idea I was going to find myself in thrall to you. It didn't matter a damn to me at the time whether you believed me or not.”

Cornelia considered this. It made perfect sense, but it didn't explain anything. “So why
did
you want the house so badly?”

He looked at her ruefully. “I can't tell you that, my dear.”

“Oh.” She plaited the folds of her robe, looking down at her fingers. “And I suppose you can't tell me either why you disappear for days at a time and come back looking like one of the walking dead?”

“No,” he agreed.

“And I must be satisfied with that?” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Harry. I can't be. You have to give me something, if we're to continue.” She looked directly at him. “Do you wish this…this that we have together…to continue?”

He came swiftly towards her, kneeling in front of her, taking her hands in his. “More than I have wanted anything in my life,” he averred, bringing her hands to his lips.

She felt the antagonism melting away, but even so he
had
to give her something, something that established some private trust between them. Something of himself that went deeper than the charming man, the deeply sensual lover, the attentive friend. Oh, she believed he was genuinely all those things, but she wanted some small share in his soul.

“Give me something,” she repeated quietly.

He released her hands and stood up again. He had lived so long by his wits, inhabiting the shadowy corners of secret intelligence, that he didn't know how to offer her even a chink of light. But he knew absolutely that if he denied her now, he would lose her.

He spoke hesitantly. “If I remind you that England is at war, will that be sufficient?”

She looked at him, startled out of her composure. “You're a soldier?”

He shook his head. “Not in the way you mean.” He turned away from her and went over to his clothes on the chest.

“No,” Cornelia said. “Don't go.”

He looked over at her again. “I will not say anything else, Nell. And I have to trust that you will say nothing of this either.”

“Of course I wouldn't.” She sounded shocked.

“You are very close to your friends,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And now they know of this liaison. But I will not betray a confidence. I
never
would.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I believe you. Are we done now, Nell?”

She stood up slowly. “Almost. Answer me just one last question. Is there danger in what you do?”

He laughed a little and prevaricated a little more. “Not if it's managed properly…now, I have a powerful need of that bed, and of you. So, I ask again, are we done with this?”

Her choice was stark and simple. Accept what little he'd given her, or refuse to accept Harry himself. She nodded and went to him.

I
'M GUESSING
C
ASANOVA HAS REAPPEARED
,” Livia said slyly as she buttered a piece of toast several days later.

Cornelia poured coffee. “Maybe,” she said.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Aurelia scoffed. “Maybe, indeed. Have you looked at yourself in the last couple of days, Nell?”

“I look the same as usual,” her sister-in-law said, but with a twitch of her lips.

“Not the same as you looked when Harry disappeared,” Aurelia said, reaching for the marmalade. “Where did he go?”

Cornelia shrugged. “I'm not entirely sure. Some family business in the country I believe…now what?” Her friends were looking at her with undisguised skepticism.

“It's strange that his closest friends appear ignorant of his obligations to his late sister's children,” Aurelia observed.

“Did they say that?” Cornelia inquired innocently, taking a bite of buttered toast.

“Yes, yes…” Aurelia waved the marmalade spoon impatiently. “Point taken…it's none of our business, but don't insult our intelligence, Nell.” She licked a gob of marmalade from her finger.

“I wouldn't,” Cornelia said with a rueful smile. “But can we leave it there?”

“Of course,” Livia said. “And on the subject of Viscount Bonham, what are we going to wear to this excursion he's arranged for us all to Vauxhall this evening? I thought if I wore your green crepe tunic over my cream taffeta, Ellie, no one would recognize either garment.”

“That should pass muster,” Aurelia agreed. “And I'm going to borrow Nell's blue gauze shawl to wear over the striped muslin.”

“You'll be cold,” Cornelia pointed out. “It's still only March. You can't stroll nonchalantly through the gardens in gauze and muslin. Try my fur pelisse. The one Claire fashioned out of that old opera cloak.”

“But what about you?”

“I was thinking your taffeta cloak over my lavender silk.” She sipped her coffee.

“Then that's settled,” Livia said. “It's certainly amazing what Claire has done with our old clothes, not to mention the new ones she made up for us.”

“And the constant alterations she makes,” Aurelia said, pushing back her chair as she rose from the table. “She's quite the cleverest needlewoman.”

“That reminds me, if you're going out, Ellie, could you buy me some red velvet ribbon? I thought I'd trim that chip straw bonnet and add a bunch of cherries or something,” Cornelia asked, as she too rose from the table.

“Of course,” her sister-in-law agreed amiably. “What are your plans for the morning?”

“I have to work with Stevie on his Latin conjugations,” Cornelia said with a grimace. “The earl's latest communication demands a progress report on his heir's educational.”

“Why don't you ask him to release funds to pay for a governess?” Livia asked.

“He won't do that, not when the Reverend Lacey's curate for a mere pittance is ready, willing, and more than able to prepare Stevie for Harrow,” Cornelia said grimly.

“I much prefer listening to my father's sermons,” Livia said. “Even if they do send me to sleep. Barker preaches fire and brimstone every Sunday. Even at Christmas.”

“Yes, and you can imagine how that translates into his teaching methods,” Cornelia said as grimly as before. “I'm not handing my son over to his tender mercies, whatever the earl says.”

“I don't blame you.” Aurelia sighed. “At least he won't interfere in Franny's and Susannah's schooling.”

“No,” Cornelia agreed with a sardonic smile. “Girls are fit only for marriage, obedience, and duty. The only tutors they need in those requirements are fathers, brothers, and, of course, husbands.” She went to the door. “I'll see you at luncheon.”

Despite her apparent nonchalance, Cornelia was, however, concerned about her son's educational progress. It was one area in which his grandfather could accuse her of being remiss. If he sent the curate up to London to test the child, Stevie would probably come up short on some of the more rigorous skills, like his Latin and Greek.

Cornelia could handle a five-year-old's Latin, but her Greek was lamentable. She could manage the alphabet, but little else, and while she was convinced it was unnecessary at this age for the child to be conversant with Greek verbs and vocabulary, she knew that if Markby appealed to his peers, she would lose the battle, and she would be compelled to return with her son to his grandfather's supervision.

She had no desire to leave the life that was opening for her, but if such a move was in her children's best interests, she would go and take her regrets buried deep within her. But she did not believe such a move was in anyone's best interests at present. Her children were certainly not suffering. Everything about their new surroundings fascinated them, and they were cocooned in the stable familiarity of their mother and Linton.

No, she had searched her conscience and come to the conclusion that her own inclinations were not detrimental to her children at this point. They simply condemned her to a morning of conjugating Latin verbs with a recalcitrant five-year-old.

 

“I don't understand how you could lose him so completely.” Harry tried to conceal his anger even though his frustration was close to explosion. “You had him in Billingsgate, you said.”

The two agents looked discomfited but also defiant. “We tracked him to those first lodgings, sir. We could have picked him up there, but our orders were to leave him for you.”

Harry sighed. “Yes, I know. Forgive my impatience. But what of the second place.”

“In Billingsgate, sir,” Coles said. “Again we had him, but we still had the same orders. By the time we'd passed on our information, he'd gone again.”

“And this time there were no clues,” his fellow agent said with a certain laconic satisfaction. “We've scoured the neighborhood, questioned every Tom, Dick, and Harry, begging your pardon, my lord, and we've come up with nothing. Even his tail has disappeared.”

Harry drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He realized he should have let these two pick up Nigel Dagenham when they first found him. Once Nigel's tail had been identified as definitely French and it had become clear that Nigel was in enemy sights, Harry himself should have had nothing to do with the business apart from the first tip to Simon. He should have resisted the urge to keep the whole mess in the family, so to speak.

And now Dagenham had disappeared, and Harry was forced to admit that he had for once in his working life allowed personal concerns to cloud his judgment. The essential question now was whether Nigel was still on the run or already in enemy hands.

“Keep looking,” he said. “The fault is mine.”

“Aye, sir.” The two agents nodded their agreement, but with respect. “If we find him again, should we move?”

“Certainly,” Harry responded. “Don't delay for a second. Just tell me when you have him safe.”

“Right, sir.” They turned to go, then Coles glanced over his shoulder as he reached the door. “If it comes down to it, sir…?”

“Do what you have to,” Harry said. He might be signing Nigel Dagenham's death warrant, but he could see little alternative.

Personal business did not meld with professional. He had always believed that, but he'd never had to face the conflict before. In two hours he was going to be escorting his lover, who was Nigel's cousin, her two dearest friends, also close friends of Nigel's, at a jolly party in Vauxhall Gardens. The boats would be awaiting his guests at the water steps at nine o'clock, a carefully chosen supper would be served in a private pavilion at eleven. He had wanted to spend some time with Cornelia in a public setting. An absurdly dangerous impulse in the circumstances but one he had been unable to resist. Among the secluded groves and shadowed pathways of Vauxhall Gardens they could inconspicuously find some privacy, and he had planned the excursion with all the care he would have devoted to the planned extraction of an endangered agent in the heart of St. Petersburg.

And he would have this hanging over him.

 

“So, what do you think?” Livia presented herself in the salon just as the clock struck eight. “Isn't the pelisse perfect? Oh, and you both look stunning.”

“We all look stunning,” Cornelia said. “And the teacup awaits.” She led the way to the front door, which for once was held open by Morecombe.

“Where's Lester this evening, Morecombe?” she inquired, drawing on her silk gloves.

“Said he had summat to do,” the retainer informed her. “Ye'd best knock 'ard when you comes back. I sleep like the dead.”

“Leave the key beneath the flowerpot,” Livia said, gesturing to one of the empty stone Grecian urns that stood sentinel at the front door. “We'll let ourselves in.”

Morecombe shook his head. “Couldn't do that, mum, not with all these goin's-on at night.”

“There haven't been any, recently Morecombe,” Cornelia pointed out. “Leave the dogs loose and the key underneath the urn.”

“Right y'are, then. If 'n you knows what y'are doing.” Morecombe retreated into the hall, closing the door on his ladies, who merely shrugged and descended the steps to the waiting Berlin.

The new coachman, a very elderly man as dour as Morecombe, who had produced him without a word once the carriage had been made roadworthy, sat on the box, twirling his long coaching whip while Jemmy, who acted as groom when his services were so required, saw the ladies into the vast crimson depths of the ancient vehicle.

“I wish I knew where Morecombe had found Harper,” Livia said, settling herself against the faded squabs. “He didn't even offer any references.”

“I suspect he was Aunt Sophia's coachman until she gave up the carriage,” Cornelia said. “He seems very familiar with its bulk, and it's not an easy thing to drive around these streets.”

“Yes, I'm sure they weren't as crowded when all the carriages were the size of this teacup,” Aurelia agreed. “He's certainly old enough to have been in Aunt Sophia's service at some point. I'm guessing he's as old as Morecombe.”

“And just how old do you think that is?” Livia inquired with a chuckle. “He seems so fossilized it's impossible to tell.”

The carriage delivered them to the steps opposite the water gate to Vauxhall Gardens, where a line of sculls jostled, bobbing on the river, the boatmen calling to potential customers. Jemmy jumped from his perch on the back of the carriage and let down the footstep.

“I'll call a scull, m'lady.”

“It's already taken care of,” Sir Nicholas Petersham called out cheerfully. “David and I are commissioned to carry you safely across the river, my ladies, where our host awaits us.”

“That's comforting.” Cornelia took his hand as she descended from the carriage. “I have no wish to be pitched headlong into the dark greasy waters of the Thames on a cold March night.”

“Oh, never fear, ma'am, such a thing could never happen,” Lord Forster reassured. “I've never heard of such a thing happening…but ladies do have their fears, I know.”

Cornelia laughed. “Indeed, Lord Forster, it was but in jest. I have no such fear I assure you.”

He looked somewhat relieved. “We've hired a very stable scull, ma'am. Big enough for all of us.”

“You are very kind, my lord,” Livia said, smiling from beneath her hat, a frothy creation of lace and chiffon that framed her face beautifully.

Two brawny oarsmen pulled them swiftly across the river to the water gate of the gardens, where Harry stood waiting for them. He came swiftly to the steps. “Good evening, ladies.”

His green eyes glittered as they met Cornelia's gaze and he held out his hand ostensibly to help her ashore, but his fingers closed tightly over hers, and for a second his thumb moved wickedly against her palm through the thin silk glove. Somehow he managed to invest the little movement with a deeply erotic meaning, and Cornelia's body responded as always with a jolt in her loins that made her tighten her thighs abruptly.

“My aunt decided to make one of the party,” Harry said with a hint of apology in his tone. “She's listening to the concert in the Rotunda.”

“Wouldn't have thought Vauxhall would be to Her Grace's taste,” David observed.

“No, neither would I,” agreed Harry. “But when I happened to mention our little party, she announced that she would be one of its number…she and her companion,” he added.

“Eliza Cox has been my great-aunt's companion for the last twenty years,” he explained to the women. “She's an inoffensive soul, somewhat bullied by my aunt, I fear.” He offered Cornelia his arm.

The garden was awash in so much illumination from the many thousands of lights strung from the trees and colonnades, and the supper pavilions, that it could almost have been midday, Cornelia reflected. She had only once before been to Vauxhall Gardens, during her one and only London season, and had considered it rather vulgar then. It didn't seem to her to have improved much.