Persuasion (20 page)

And he felt someone else’s presence.

Simon turned slightly, searching the darkness of the entry hall and froze. Amelia stood at the opposite end, a tray in her hands, with a single taper set on it.

He could see her perfectly, as he was in the shadows and she was illuminated, but she could not see him—not yet.

“Who is it?” she gasped, setting the tray down abruptly and lifting the taper high.

What was she doing downstairs? He turned to go, but just before he did, their eyes met.

She cried out. Ducking his head, he ran down the hallway, but he did not hear her following. Simon rushed outside in disbelief. Amelia had not only seen him, he was certain that she had recognized him!

As he strode across the gardens, he looked back at the house. The ballroom remained in blackness. When he did not see the light of a single candle appear, some small relief began. She wasn’t following him.

Maybe, just maybe, she thought him an intruder. He cursed as he reached the stables. He was going to have to invent a plausible excuse for leaving at midnight in disguise, in case she had recognized him.

The groom rushed forward with his horse, pretending not to notice his absurd and effeminate ensemble. Simon thanked him and leaped astride. Then he trotted swiftly from the stable yard. As he entered the drive in front of the house, he saw a light burning in one window by the front door. He had not a doubt that Amelia stood there, watching him. He cursed again.

She was so damned nosy!

He spurred the gelding he was riding into a canter and loped down the drive. She was also impossibly brave. Damn it!

London was mostly in blackness as he left Lambert Hall behind. The great houses lining the square were cast in shadow. As he hurried through Mayfair, finally leaving the stately mansions and townhomes behind, he debated the stories he could tell her. The groom had wondered if he was going on the town to pursue boys, he was certain, but Amelia would never believe that. He supposed he could tell her he had gone out to meet a mistress. But he would still need an excuse for such an elaborate disguise.

She would be hurt, he knew, if he convinced her he had a lover. Simon cursed again.

Thirty minutes later, he reached the inn where he was meeting his contact. A moon had emerged from the clouds drifting across the night sky, along with a scattering of dull stars. A stable boy had come out of the inn’s stables and he handed his gelding to the boy, giving him a shilling. The boy gaped at the handsome sum. Simon said, “Keep my mount out front. I may only be a moment or two, or I may be an hour.”

“Yes, my lord,” the boy said quickly.

“Where is the back entrance?”

The boy directed him around the side of the main building. “Right there, my lord, but it leads to the kitchens.”

“Good lad.” Simon gave him another shilling and strode swiftly toward the back door. He had no intention of going in the front, where Marcel would see him before he saw Marcel.

He forgot about Amelia now. He forgot about his sons. Now, it was only the dangerous game of meeting an adversary that could be the death of him if he did not outwit him at every twist and turn.

Pots were clattering and dishes clanking as he entered the kitchens, which were almost cleaned for the evening. No one did more than glance at him cursorily as he strode through. The hall outside was small, narrow and poorly lit. As he traversed it, he could hear the raucous sounds of the inebriated patrons in the public room.

He paused in the shadows of the hall on the threshold of the common room, scanning the crowd. Perhaps two-dozen men were present, with five or six barmaids and prostitutes. He did not bother to look at any of the women, and he dismissed all but four of the men.

But those four men present were gentlemen of some sort. He stared at a heavy, gray-haired man who was drinking rum or whiskey and pinching a voluptuous, barely clad barmaid. The man was clearly drunk. Simon dismissed him instantly.

Another gent, in a pale blue coat and a white wig, also seemed deeply in his cups. Simon glanced at the third gentleman, who was playing cards very intently with the fourth man. He studied them for some time, but both men were engrossed in the poker game they were playing and neither looked up even once.

He looked back at the heavyset, gray-haired man with the barmaid. He was most definitely drunk, to the point of falling over.

And Simon felt that he was being watched. He jerked his gaze back to the man in the white wig and the pale blue coat. The man was drinking his ale, but Simon was almost certain he had caught him staring.

He stepped back into the shadows, his gaze unwavering as the man turned his back mostly to him, to watch the gents playing poker. As he did so, he noticed the man’s pale complexion and his hooked nose. Suddenly he froze, in shock.

Was that Edmund Duke?

Duke was Windham’s clerk.

He inhaled, certain he was staring at Duke—who was every bit as disguised as he was.

Windham was the War Secretary. There was a mole in the War Office. Paget had said that the mole worked closely with Windham.

Could Duke be the mole? Was Duke Marcel?

Or was Duke one of Warlock’s men? Had Warlock sent Duke to spy on him?

Simon did not know. But he turned and rushed down the hall and through the kitchens and outside. “Boy! Bring my horse!” he shouted.

And a second later, he was galloping away, covered in sweat.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
MELIA
WAS
AS
STILL
as a statue. She wasn’t sure when she had crept into his rooms, but it had been shortly after he had left the house. In disguise. She did not think she had done more than breathe ever since.

And her mind had not stopped racing, not even for a moment.

She shivered, hugging the wool throw to her body. Why had Simon left the house in such an elaborate disguise? My God, she had barely recognized him!

The chair she sat in faced the front door of his apartments—the door he must eventually enter. A fire blazed in the hearth to her left, but otherwise the sitting room—and his bedchamber—were in darkness. But there was a gilded clock with a white face on the mantel. If she turned her head ever so slightly, she could make out the time.

It was just shy of half past one in the morning.

For the past hour, she had been replaying his behavior in her mind. She kept thinking about the fact that he was never in residence with his family, and that while he claimed to often be in the north, no one had ever really known where he was—not even Lady Grenville.

She was so afraid he was playing war games.

Hadn’t Julianne told her that there were French spies in the city? Was Simon trying to enter those circles? He was well-known—but tonight, no one would recognize him!

She prayed that there was another reason he had left the house as he had. She reminded herself that he seemed utterly indifferent to the war. If he was a part of Warlock’s circle of spies, then he was a consummate actor—and it would explain so much. The nightmares, his references to death, his crying out for Georges Danton...

She felt tears rising in her eyes. Oh, why, Simon, why? She wanted to cry. He had changed so much, he was so dark and anguished, and he was afraid of something or someone. If he were spying for his country, and she would be a fool not to believe the most likely possibility, then he was most definitely in some danger.

They are coming for me.

She would never forgot that harsh, terrified declaration, made in the midst of a nightmare.

Amelia finally moved. Using her sleeve, she wiped her eyes. She was putting the cart before the horse. She supposed there was a slim chance he was in disguise for some other reason—that he was visiting a bawdy house or a gaming hall. As the Earl of St. Just, there might be unsavory places he wished to be, yet he wouldn’t want to be recognized in them. But she doubted Simon would avail himself of a prostitute; she didn’t think he gambled. And she had checked the drawer in his desk. The gun was gone. He had taken it with him.

Would he take a pistol with him to a gambling hall? She hardly thought so!

And she knew that John wasn’t coming down with a cold. She had not thought he was sick, no matter Simon’s insisting otherwise. Simon had set her up, obviously. His worries about his son had been a ruse to keep her upstairs and out of his way, so he could escape into the night.

She trembled with anger. But mostly, there was fear.

How could he put the children in such jeopardy?

Last year, radicals had threatened to harm her and Momma if Julianne did not do as they wished. There was no honor amongst men, not in war. If Simon was dabbling in war and revolution, his children’s lives were endangered. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing, out at this hour, in such a disguise. But she intended to find out. She had every right to confront him when he returned. The children were her responsibility, too!

If he was simply gambling the night away, then he would have to be honest with her. And she knew he wasn’t with another woman, not even a prostitute. He wouldn’t do that to her....

Amelia realized her ankles were becoming numb. She tucked them under her. Soon she would go down to the library, just to make certain he was not back and hiding in his usual retreat. The one thing she would not do was sleep. But he had only been gone for an hour. She doubted he would be back for some time.

And then, to her surprise, she heard the floorboards in the hall creak. Amelia tensed, straining to see, staring at the closed door.

Simon could not be returning already, could he?

Now, she wished she had taken the gun he kept beside his bed. Her heart hammering, she became utterly still as she heard someone pause outside his sitting room. She heard the knob turn. The door creaked. It opened and a man stepped into the room.

Instantly, she recognized Simon.

He was not in disguise. His hair was loose, brushing his shoulders. The black coat was gone. There was no strawberry-blond wig, either, no white complexion. He closed the door and started across the parlor, not having seen her.

Amelia’s heart thundered wildly. There was no relief; her tension had never been higher. “Simon.”

He halted abruptly and turned toward her, his eyes wide in the dark.

“You haven’t been gone for very long,” she said. She doubted her legs would work, so she did not even try to get up. Breathing was difficult enough. Dread consumed her.

A long, terrible pause ensued. “I take it you are waiting up for me?”

How calm he sounded. Using the arms of the chair, Amelia somehow stood. Her ankles prickled. Her heart was pounding even harder now. “I did not expect you back so late—or should I say, so early.”

He slowly smiled, but his gaze slipped suggestively down her body. “Amelia, do you think it wise to confront me in my rooms?”

“You are not frightening me. Or rather, I am already frightened, but I know you well. I realize that you think to unnerve me by looking at me that way.”

“I think you should reconsider our having this discussion now,” he returned as evenly.

“Where have you been, Simon? What happened to your wig?”

“You are behaving like a wife—not a housekeeper. I do not believe I have any intention of reporting to you.” He was firm.

“I am worried about your children.”

“My children have nothing to do with this.”

“To the contrary, if they are in any danger, then I must know!” Her tone rose. She heard how sharp it had become.

He slowly smiled again. “I go out for a drink, and you conclude that my children are in danger? Come, Amelia, are you using them now so you can spy upon me?”

She wanted to slap him. “Do not dare turn this around!” she cried. “I saw you go out and you also saw me. I saw your elaborate disguise. Where is that red wig, Simon? Where is the black coat?”

“Very well,” he said harshly. “I went out tonight. I went to a gaming hall for a drink. I was in disguise, Amelia, because I did not feel like having a dozen of my peers about whom I don’t give a damn pretending that they care about Lady Grenville’s death!”

“I want to believe you,” she cried, “but you took your pistol with you. I checked your desk!” She felt tears rising. It was an accusation.

“Highwaymen roam the streets of London at this late hour,” he snapped. “I am not going to argue with you. I went out for a drink. I went out in disguise, but for the purpose I stated—and nothing more. Whatever you are thinking, I suggest you stop.”

She finally marched over to him. She took her thumb and rubbed off a patch of white from his cheek, which he had clearly failed to remove. “Did you use asbestos? How clever!”

He seized her wrist. “Have you noticed that we are alone in my rooms and it is dark and late?”

Her pulse leaped. “What are you doing, Simon? Where have you been? Why did you leave this house in disguise? Why did you think to divert me with your insistence that John was ill? Are you some kind of spy?” Panic filled her breast.

His gaze locked with hers, darkening. “I am not reporting my every movement, Amelia, not to you, not to anyone, not now or ever. I suggest you accept what I have thus far said, before I become truly angry.” He released her.

“When did you become close to Warlock? You did not even speak of him ten years ago! I recall that you told me you had Warlock look out for the boys while you were in the north. But were you in the north, really, Simon?” Tears fell.

“You need to leave my bedroom and go to your bed and forget this night ever happened.” An edge had crept into his tone. But his gaze was unwavering upon her face.

“You rouged your lips—you looked like a fool! You would never go out that way—not unless you had to,” she cried desperately.

He released her abruptly. “It is late. I am tired. You are tired. We should not be having this conversation now, and certainly not here.” Giving her a dark look, he walked past her and into his bedchamber. “Good night.”

He hadn’t turned to look at her as he dismissed her. In more dismay, Amelia followed him partway to the threshold of his bedroom. Then she froze, because he had shrugged off his lawn shirt. His upper body was hard and lean, a mass of sculpted muscle.

Her heart slammed. Her mouth went dry. She loved him so—that was why she was so terrified. And she desired him. “I want to help,” she whispered.

He glanced briefly at her. “If you keep standing there, we both know where you will wind up.”

She realized she was staring at his bulging arms and hard chest. She jerked her gaze to his face. “You owe me an explanation. Not because we are friends. Not because we are employer and housekeeper. But because I love your sons and Lucille, and it is my duty to keep them safe. How can I keep them safe, Simon, if you are in danger?”

“I am not in danger.” He sat down on the velvet bench at the end of the bed and removed one boot and then another.

Amelia knew she should leave. He was disrobing, and she thought he might go so far as to do so entirely in front of her, in order to get her to flee. But she was not going anywhere until he confessed the truth—and he hadn’t gone out for a drink, she was certain.

He pulled off one stocking, then another, and sat up, facing her. His brows rose. “I am going to disrobe.”

She could not swallow now. His chest was bare. So were his calves and feet. How could she not recall their encounter in his rooms at St. Just Hall, after the funeral? “You would not go so far.”

He stood, his gaze moving down her bodice. “You are impossible, Amelia. And that is why I brought you into my household. You are perhaps the most determined woman I know.”

She decided to ignore the muscles rippling in his arms and rib cage, if she could. “Then you know I will not give this up, Simon. I have every right to know what you are doing in the middle of the night. Enough is enough. Tonight you must confess. Your behavior has been too odd—and you know it.”

He reached out and tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “As I said, impossible.”

She refused to stop, even though her heart slammed. “Do not think to seduce me. You have the children to think of. If you are engaging in dangerous activities, then by association they are in danger, too.”

“I would never put my children wittingly in danger, Amelia.” His tone was harder now.

“Then what are you doing? What can you be thinking?” she cried.

“I am thinking,” he said slowly, “that I am mostly undressed, it is very late and there is nothing I would rather do than stop this conversation by taking you to my bed.”

She trembled. “Simon!”

“Has it ever occurred to you that it is best if you do not know every detail of my life?” He reached out and slid his hand over her jaw, and then down her neck.

Desire fanned into huge flames. “Don’t. This is too important. Were you in any danger tonight?”

Did he hesitate? “Not the kind of danger you are thinking of. The only danger is your being here with me.” And he smiled, his gaze heavy.

“What does that mean? I know you are trying to cover up your activities, Simon! Are you being pursued? How can I take care of your children if I don’t know what you are involved in?”

He rubbed his thumb over her neck, and then lower, toward her cleavage. “I fail to follow your logic, Amelia. How does my going out for a drink affect the welfare of my children?”

His touch was impossibly arousing. But Amelia did not attempt to pull away. “You have no intention of telling me what you were really doing tonight, do you? I am putting the children first, Simon, but you are putting yourself first.”

His eyes flickered. “You are right. Just now, I am not thinking of the children, and just now, I am not putting their needs first.”

Her heart slammed as he grasped her shoulders and leaned toward her. She wanted to tell him not to kiss her—this was too important. She had to learn the truth! But she had been waiting for this moment. She had been waiting for his kiss.

His grasp tightened and he smiled; then his mouth closed over hers.

Amelia closed her eyes, forgetting everything. And as his mouth moved over hers, again and again, with determination, with urgency, someone moaned. She realized it was herself.

Instinctively, she stepped closer. His shoulders were hot and bare beneath her hands. It was hard to think now. He wrapped his arms around her and too late she was in his embrace, acutely aware that he was shirtless. As the kiss deepened, she slid her hands over his chest.

Simon moaned, and she thrilled at the sound. Amelia finally kissed him back, hot and hard and passionately, her fingers sliding down his back.

He groaned and let her go, breathing hard and raggedly. “I swore to Lucas I would respect you!”

She shook her head, briefly incapable of speech. Her mind was spinning, her body on fire. How long could they go on this way?

“Amelia—you must leave.” He was final.

Her mind began to function. She inhaled, shuddering from a wave of desire, but she did not start across the room. “Where did you go tonight, Simon?” she finally managed to ask. “Please.”

His chest still rising and falling, he stepped even farther back. “Do you ever give up and quit? You do not want to know, Amelia.”

She tensed, and not just at the warning note in his tone. Was he about to admit that he hadn’t been out for a drink? “Last night you pointed a gun at me, Simon! Tonight you went out armed, in a deliberate disguise. What should I think?” She hugged herself.

He stared for a long moment, his broad chest rising and falling. “You have leaped to all the wrong conclusions,” he finally said. “Yes, I am afflicted with dark moods. Has it ever occurred to you that I never recovered from my brother’s death?”