0062412949 (R) (38 page)

“It’s this business I have,” he said. “It cannot wait, even until morning. We left Berkshire at breakneck speed for a reason.”

“I suppose I should count myself lucky that you spared precious minutes to take this tour.”

“I would not leave you until I was satisfied with the security of the house,” he said tiredly.

She considered this, studying him, willing him to say more. After a moment, she said, “Is something the matter, Trevor? What’s happened? What
business?
”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing with which to concern yourself. A loose end with my uncle’s estate. Joseph will remain here to keep watch. Do not dissuade him or send him away, Piety. Please.”

She studied him a moment longer. All day, she’d wondered about the weariness in his eyes. A different weariness than ever she had seen before. Was it desperation? Regret? She felt the first pangs of concern. It was not like him to be vague. Even when she did not like his words, he had always been explicitly honest. Now, he hedged, she was sure of it. The look in his eye, the evasiveness? This was something else. Was he afraid?

“When will you return?” she asked him.

“I don’t know—late.”

“Will you return to me here, or . . . ”

“You will be asleep when I come in, but I won’t disturb you when I . . . ” He looked away and then back. “I will return to my uncle’s house.”

Piety blinked. And there it was. Hot tears stung her eyes.

Trevor opened his mouth to say something, but no words came.

“Very well,” she said, nodding her head tersely and raising her chin. She would not try to persuade him.

“Piety, I . . . ”

She waited half of a second more, willing him to confide in her. He hesitated, and she turned away. She felt him watch her as she disappeared around the corner and into the solarium beyond.

T
revor bolted from Henrietta Place on horseback. The tour had been interminable, but he couldn’t leave Piety in an unfinished structure with bricks propped against doors instead of locks. It was difficult enough to leave her at all. She was heartbroken and confused, and it pained him, but his sole focus must become locating Viscount Rainsleigh, the bloody target of Straka’s bloody blackmail plot, whomever he was.

The preliminaries for blackmail were simple, and God forgive him, Trevor knew them well. Devote several weeks to learning the target and setting up the meet; then designate a smaller window of time to close in and demand the money. Trevor had every intention of working
around
the crime instead of committing it, but a double-cross would take twice the work in half the time. Discovering Rainsleigh’s location and routine, his known associates and his vices should have already begun.

The two gentleman’s clubs in St. James were an obvious first stop. Trevor had never set foot inside Brooks’s or White’s, but his uncle had been a legacy member of both, and the dues were paid through year’s end, thank God. These clubs teemed with well-heeled gentleman, all of whom should be drinking swiftly and talking freely by this hour of night. Trevor flipped a coin and started at White’s.

“You mean
Viscount
Rainsleigh?” repeated an old baronet, an hour after he arrived. He’d chosen the old man for his flashy cuff links and big mouth. Trevor had allowed him to win at cards twice.

“That’s right,” Trevor said casually. “Happen to know the fellow?”

“The father or the son?”

“Father is dead, or so I’m told.”

“Quite so,” said the baronet, “drowned in a stream. He was a wastrel and a letch. Not fit for decent company. But the son’s a different story.” He stabbed a cheroot in his mouth. “Built a bloody shipyard in Blackwall. Made enough to dig the estate in Wiltshire out of hock.”

“Quite unseemly for a gentleman to
work
,” Trevor suggested, fishing.

“No life of leisure for that one. Got his nose in his ledger all the bloody time.”

“Is he ever seen here—or across the street?”

The baronet laughed. “God no, I’ve never once seen him out. He does not socialize, as far as I know. Keeps himself away from spirits, gambling, turtledoves—no fun at all, really. He makes a point to be as righteous as his father was corrupt. ‘Lord Immaculate,’ they call him.”

“Of course they do.” Trevor sighed, and raised his glass. In his head, he cursed Janos Straka to hell and back.

His next stop was the river—the docks along Blackwall, where Rainsleigh was building his shipping empire. Trevor ambled from pub to pub, leaning against bars; lurking near boisterous, crowded tables; playing darts. Finally, a stumbling group of steelworkers fell into an argument over a serving wench, and Trevor stepped in. He bought a round of drinks for the men and tipped the girl enough to take the rest of the night off.

“Aye, we know Lord Rainsleigh,” said a burly steelworker when Trevor settled in to share their ale. “Knew him before he was a fancy cock o’ the walk, too. Worked right alongside him on the docks for years without even knowing he was waiting to become a lord. He lived in London then.”

Trevor choked. “Does he not still reside in town?” It had not occurred to him that he might have to leave London to find this man.

The big man shrugged, but another said, “He came into a mansion in Mayfair when his father went on. But he sold it, straight away, and moved to the country. Wiltshire, maybe?”

A third man spoke up, “He was a hard worker, that one. Always up for a job. Course he owns half the river now.”

The first man continued, “Aye. I’d look for work in his shop if he’d have me.”

“Hmm,” Trevor said thoughtfully, “has all the help he needs, does he?”

The men around the table laughed, and his informant’s face turned pink. The big man narrowed his eyes as if deciding whether to take offense, but then he shrugged and threw back his drink. “Can’t meet his bloody standards, guv’nor,” he admitted, slamming his tankard down. “The viscount only takes the most skilled trades. Me? I work hard, but I’ve had no proper training.”

“Is that right?” Trevor signaled for another round of drinks. “Sounds like a hard man.”

“He’s all right,” finished the first man. “Builds a beauty of a ship. Treats his men fair. Doesn’t suffer laziness or fools.”

“That cuts us out!” said another man, and the table burst into more laughter. Trevor smiled weakly, barely able to fake it, and paid the tab.

By the time Trevor rode for home, he had a frustratingly clear picture of “Lord Immaculate.” Hard working, fair, principled. The most difficult possible blackmail mark. He might as well have been a priest. He reached Henrietta Place bone tired and plagued with worry, but he would not rest until he checked on Piety. He entered his own house for the benefit of Straka’s spies and then crept through Piety’s rear garden.

“No trouble, then?” he asked Joseph when he found him. “Were you able to see a watch in the street?”

“No, but I can’t guard her and prowl around.” The boy looked around the kitchen and yawned. “You’re back now; I’ll make a loop.”

Trevor shook his head. “No, get some sleep. I did a thorough round just now. Nothing’s amiss. It’s almost morning. The doors are locked. We will begin again tomorrow.”

“Did you find the viscount?”

Trevor took a deep, weary breath and let it out, rehashing the facts he discovered over the course of the night.

When he finished, Joseph asked, “Be hard to blackmail him if he’s not even in town.”

“That’s the God’s-honest truth. But, you know, Joseph, I’m racking my brain for a way
not
to blackmail the bloody man. I can’t commit a crime on Straka’s behalf. Not here in England. Not against a viscount who’s known as ‘Lord Immaculate.’ It was one thing to run schemes in Greece, where corruption is a way of life, but in England? There has to be some other way.”

Joseph grinned. “I’m glad you won’t do it.”

“Well, I’ve said I will
try
not to do it. If the man is in London, I hope to set up a meeting under the auspices of investing in his ships. By the time he figures out I have no money and no interest in shipping, hopefully I will have learned something useful.”

“Learned something useful about what?” said a sleep-rasped voice from the doorway.

Trevor craned around.

His wife stood at the base of the servants’ stairs clad only in a thin night rail. Her hair was wild and loose. Her feet, bare. She squinted, sleep still in her eyes.

Trevor glanced at Joseph, dismissing him, and went to her, whipping off his coat to cover her shoulders.

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” he asked softly.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She snuggled into the coat. “Why are you here? Is anything the matter?”

“No, no, I am merely checking on Joseph.”

They looked up, and the boy was gone.

“Do you want something from the kitchen?” he asked her. “Joseph had the kettle on.”

She shook her head and turned to go.

“Piety, wait.”

She paused on the stair.

“Let me walk you up. There are strewn nails and tools and loose timber. You mustn’t walk around without shoes in the dark.”

He clipped up the stairs beside her, and as they wound up the small staircase, his hand hovered at the small of her back. He intended to leave her in the hallway outside her chamber, but she fumbled with the knob. Her hand was lost in the sleeve of his jacket.

He toed the door with his boot, and she padded past him. Her loose hair grazed his face. The sweet scent of her—floral soap and clean cotton—wafted over him. He followed.

“In the bed you go,” he heard himself say, taking his coat. He would merely see her safely beneath the covers.

She said nothing, crawling sleepily into the bed. Her gown was voluminous, and her feet were tangled, briefly, in the hem. He reached out to pull it free, and his thumb grazed her ankle.

She extended her leg.

He caught her foot in his hand.

She looked up. Of its own volition, his hand slid upward. With half-lidded eyes, he watched his fingers trace her trim ankle, bare leg, knee.

He stopped. He looked at her. She was propped back on her elbows, staring back. She blinked.

“Under the covers now,” he whispered. His voice was a useless crackle of reverence and desire.

She went opposite the covers, sliding her other leg beside the first. She pointed her toes.

He stared at her feet. Small. Arched. Five tiny toes on each dainty foot.

He had never felt so stricken with the need to touch, to skate his hand down and outline one perfect arch with his finger and glide it back up again.

He forced himself to whisper. “I said
beneath
the covers, Piety.”

The sheet was beneath her, and he used one hand to slide it free. With the other hand, he held her ankle.

Holding the sheet out, he stared at his fingers surrounding her foot.

She wiggled the toes of the other.

He dropped the sheet and seized that foot as well.

Piety let out a whimper, rubbing her feet together and dropping back against the pillow on a sigh.

Trevor increased the pressure, massaging the smooth, firm skin of her feet—then her ankles. His hands went higher with each pass. Up her legs and down. Now to her knees, and down. Now higher, above her knees. Her night rail was a twist across her thighs.

His breathing grew ragged. He felt the rapid thud of his own accelerated heartbeat. She arched back, pointing her toes in delight.

On the final pass, he slid his hands up the sides of her legs, over her hips and waist, up to her breasts and then, gathering the fabric of her night rail, he fleeced the thin garment over her head, leaving her naked before him.

He swallowed and stared down.

“One small, goodnight kiss?” she asked.

On a growl, Trevor flung the night rail away and fell into bed.

“I’m sorry, Piety,” he said. “This is unfair, and wrong.”

“If you say that again,” she said, “I will bite you.”

And then she bit him anyway, but ever so softly, just behind his ear. He moaned, and they worked very diligently to kiss goodnight, until the sun awakened the sky.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

P
iety was anxious to get a real look at the progress of her house in the clear light of day. Falcondale did not awaken when she left the bed, but when she returned from breakfast, he was gone.

It was a waste of time to be surprised. She would have been shocked to find him in her chamber or anywhere in the house. Their separate lives had begun.

Ha. Our separate lives have
resumed.

Her only solace was that he had wanted her. Desperately. As desperately as she wanted him. If she thought he had not, if she thought he had been indulging her or simply going through the motions, she would not have consented. But the desire, so plain on his face, so tense through his body, had ignited her own need. And what was one more night? Soon he would be gone, and she’d have only the memories to keep her warm. Why not make as many as possible?

Now it was almost luncheon, and she had nearly unpacked. Only one trunk remained from her time in Berkshire. She bent over it, pulling out reticules and shoes, reminding herself to stay busy, to concentrate on the exciting work of her house rather than her husband’s heart-wrenching stubbornness.

She picked her way down the landing, armed with the reticules, and nearly collided with Spencer Burr.

“Oh, Mr. Burr,” she said, craning to see him over the bundle, “the molding in my bedroom is positively sculptural. I love it!”

“It was the earl’s design, my lady. He constructed it from the st—”

Crack!

In the middle of his sentence, the wood of the landing on which they stood gave a jolt beneath their feet.

Piety staggered, and Mr. Burr let out a yelp. He lunged to the bannister and looked over the edge.

Piety opened her mouth to ask him what was amiss, but before she could speak, the wood jolted again. There was another crack. A groan.

She reached for the banister, dropping the bags without a thought. Mr. Burr reached out to steady her.