A Hellion in Her Bed (31 page)

“Sometimes you just have to make a leap of faith. And I have faith in Lord Jarret, too—especially after his conversation with Hugh this evening.”

Annabel froze. “What conversation?”

“Hugh demanded to know if his intentions were honorable.”

Annabel groaned. “Did he laugh in Hugh’s face?” she asked bitterly.

“No. That’s the point. Hugh said he seemed intrigued by the idea.”

Her heart sank. “He was being polite, that’s all.”

“There isn’t an ounce of politeness in the way Lord Jarret looks at you.”

She eyed Sissy askance. “Have you forgotten his reputation?”

“Actually, no. From what I’ve heard, he prefers the fruit
hanging lowest on the tree: easy pickings. Forgive me, my dear, but you are
not
easy pickings. And we both know he has stayed here long past the time he should have.”

“If you’re helping me because you foolishly think he might marry me—”

“I’m helping you, dear heart, because you deserve a little happiness. No matter what form it comes in.”

Sissy meant well. She was making it easy for her. But Annabel could never leave Geordie behind. So tonight would have to be her only night with Jarret.

J
arret was grateful that Minerva and Gabe retired once they reached the inn. His blood raced at the thought of seeing Annabel.

Before then, however, he had something else important to do. He led Pinter into the private sitting room the inn had provided upon Jarret’s arrival.

“Brandy?” he asked as Pinter settled into a chair.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Jarret poured. After handing Pinter his, Jarret stood sipping his own, too edgy to sit down. “So tell me what you’ve learned.”

“I still haven’t tracked down any of the grooms present in the stables when your mother rode out that night.” Pinter drank from his glass. “But I thought you should hear as soon as possible what I’ve discovered about the other matter.”

“Ah.”

Desmond Plumtree, their cousin. Jarret gulped some brandy. On that fateful weekend, while coming back from the picnic, he had thought he saw his cousin in the woods.
He’d dismissed the possibility since Desmond hadn’t been invited to the house party, assuming he’d mistaken some other guest for Desmond and putting it out of his mind completely. Until Oliver’s tale had cast doubts on everything they’d believed about that night.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” he said to Pinter. “Desmond was on the estate the night of their deaths.”

“I can only prove he was in the vicinity. It took some doing, but I found a former groom from an inn in nearby Turnham who remembered cleaning Mr. Plumtree’s tack the next morning.”

“Astonishing that a groom should remember that after all these years.”

“Not when you consider that he found blood on the stirrup.”

A chill swept down Jarret’s spine. His heart racing, he took a seat. “Blood?” he said in a hollow voice. “And the groom didn’t mention it to anyone?”

“He said Mr. Plumtree claimed to have been hunting. That’s not unusual around there, nor is it odd for a hunter to have blood on him.”

“Yet he remembered it.”

“He thought it odd that it was on the stirrup,” Pinter said. “Who gets blood on the bottom of their boots while hunting? A man of Mr. Plumtree’s position would use servants to fetch and clean his game. Still, the groom didn’t connect it with the tragedy, since he’d seen Desmond drinking at the inn the night before.”

“But Mother and Father might not have died at night. They possibly died earlier, in the late afternoon.”

“Exactly. But most people don’t know that, because of the great pains your grandmother took to cover up the truth.”

Jarret nodded absently. What might have happened if Gran had told the truth, instead of trying to protect the family name? Would they have gotten to the bottom of the matter much sooner? Or would it merely have made the gossip about their family even worse?

Though how could it have been any worse than people believing Oliver had killed their parents?

“All right,” Jarret said, “assuming that Desmond was there and had something to do with their deaths—a rather great assumption—what reason would he have for killing them? He wasn’t the heir to anything. He’d have nothing to gain.”

“Didn’t you say that your grandmother has threatened to leave Plumtree Brewery to him?”

“Yes, but she said so only to torment the five of us, since she knows we hate our cousin. Besides, murdering our parents wouldn’t have gained Desmond the brewery, even if he had been Gran’s heir.”

“But there’s another way of looking at this. Perhaps your cousin expected to inherit the brewery when your grandmother’s husband, his uncle, died a few years before. Or even to be allowed to take it over. I’m sure he didn’t expect
her
to run it alone.”

“True.”

Pinter folded his hands over his waistcoat. “When he didn’t gain what he might have seen as his due, he might have plotted another way to gain it. Your grandmother was already reeling from the death of her husband. Perhaps he believed that enduring the violent deaths of her only child and son-in-law—and the ensuing scandal—might push her over the edge. It might not kill her, but it could make her give up running the brewery.”

Setting down his glass, Pinter rose to pace the room. “You
would have been too young yet to run it, and the young marquess too busy dealing with the estate. If your grandmother couldn’t handle the brewery anymore, the logical person to run things would have been her nephew. He might even have known he was designated as heir, so if she died from the strain …”

“If that was his reasoning, why not just kill Gran? She would have been an easier target.”

“Ah, but with your parents alive, your mother might have inherited. There was always a chance
she
would choose someone to run it. And he couldn’t kill all three—that would look too suspicious.”

Jarret downed his brandy in one gulp. “Still, the idea that he did it to get the brewery in his clutches is rather a stretch, don’t you think?”

“But it’s not implausible.” Pinter halted. “Of course, there’s no way to prove any of this without knowing more.” He ticked things off on his fingers. “Why he was in the area. If he really was on the estate that afternoon. What the situation was with your grandmother’s will at that point. We could ask her about that last—”

“No, I don’t want her involved.”

Pinter stared at him. “If I may be so bold as to ask, my lord, why not?”

Jarret put down his glass. “For one thing, she’s still ill. For another, these are serious accusations about her own nephew, based on nothing more than some blood that a groom claims to have cleaned off his stirrup nineteen years ago and my fleeting memory of seeing him on the estate. And I wonder if Desmond even has the stomach to commit cold-blooded murder.”

Then again, Desmond was a weasel. The possibility that he could have killed Mother and Father made Jarret’s gut churn.
What if a viper had been in their midst all these years …

No, there wasn’t enough proof to believe it. Not yet, anyway. “Is there no way to find out about Gran’s will without alerting her?”

Pinter mused a moment. “You could give someone permission to approach Mr. Bogg with a request to view all versions of the will. Your friend Masters, the barrister, could act on your behalf and include me in the endeavor. He could say that you and your siblings want to be sure of their legal rights regarding your grandmother’s ultimatum. Neither your grandmother nor Mr. Bogg would find that suspicious.”

“Good idea. I’ll discuss it with Masters as soon as we’re back in London.”

“In the meantime, I can continue to investigate. As long as I’m looking for the grooms, I can see if one of them dealt with your cousin on the estate that day. I can also question his servants about why he left town.”

“Be careful with that,” Jarret said. “I don’t want Desmond to know that we’re looking into him. If he’s guilty, there’s no telling what he might do.”

Pinter’s face darkened. “Actually, my lord, that brings me to another nasty piece of business involving your cousin. Apparently, he’s been openly questioning your fitness to run Plumtree Brewery. Somehow he got wind of how this scheme with Miss Lake came about, and he’s been spreading rather … vile rumors.”

Jarret leapt to his feet. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Pinter said dryly. “I should hate to have to arrest you.”

With an effort, Jarret jerked his anger under control. “And what would
you
advise?”

Pinter gazed at him with a somber expression. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“You could marry Miss Lake.”

Jarret had been resisting the idea of marriage for so long that his next words were purely instinctive. “When did you start working for my grandmother?”

Pinter chuckled. “Trust me, having met the young woman, I understand your reluctance.” He sobered. “But if you want to dispel rumors, not only about Miss Lake but about Plumtree and its present difficulties, then a marriage to another brewing family would be ideal. Aside from the fact that it would give you certain advantages in the market, it would also make your recent association with Lake Ale look less the result of a questionable wager and more a clever business move. That would cut the legs right from under your cousin, and he would look a fool.”

“An appealing notion,” Jarret bit out, “but hardly worth marrying for.” Except that he would be marrying Annabel, with her bright eyes and Venus smile. Annabel, who made him laugh and lust.

Annabel, who had the capacity to crush his heart in her capable hand if he let her that close. A shiver swept him.

The runner watched him closely. “Only you can know if marrying Miss Lake is worth it.”

“I’m not even sure she’d consent. Remember what she thinks of marriage?”

A small smile touched Pinter’s lips. “She was rather vocal on the subject during your card game. But surely your lordship could change her mind.”

Only if he agreed to give up his reckless ways for good.
Odd, how that didn’t sound as unappealing as it had a mere week ago.

“I’ll take your advice under consideration, Pinter. In the meantime, I’d like you to continue your investigation. Discreetly, of course.” He walked to the door and opened it. “I assume you’ll be traveling back in your own equipage tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Pinter said, “I’ll leave first thing.”

“Then I’ll take my brother and sister with me in Oliver’s carriage. See you in the morning.”

As soon as the runner was gone, Jarret began pacing the room. Marriage to Annabel. It was the second time someone had suggested it tonight. A week ago, he would have scoffed at the idea. Because if he married Annabel, Gran would win. There was no way he could marry and still give up the brewery business. Annabel herself would practically demand that he help with her brother’s company.

Besides, his gambling income was too uncertain for him to count on it to support a wife. She’d been right about that. If he married her, he might as well accept that he’d be running Plumtree Brewery—and associating with Lake Ale—for the rest of his life.

He poured himself more brandy and drank deeply. Would that be so awful? This week had challenged him in ways he hadn’t been challenged in a long time. He’d found that he liked it—having a purpose, being in command, investing his energies in something greater than himself.

So what did it matter if Gran won? They could both win.

Except that at the end of the year, Gran would regain control of the company. He’d be in the same position he’d always fought to avoid: under her thumb, fighting with her over every decision, playing her lackey.

Unless you prove yourself capable of running it alone.

The idea arrested him. He had nearly a year. If he could wrest the company from the brink of disaster in that time he’d have leverage. He could demand that she step down. She might even do it—especially if he’d taken a wife by then. And if that wife were a brewster, that could only help.

A slow smile curved his lips. With excitement building in his chest, he downed the rest of the brandy.

He might have trouble convincing Annabel. She’d told him twice now she had no desire to marry—but he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He had tonight to convince her, and he meant to show her exactly how well it could work for them both. She was a practical female: she’d see the business advantages to such a union. He need not spout a lot of emotional nonsense he didn’t mean. She wouldn’t expect that, would she? After all, she’d been in love with that arse Rupert, and that hadn’t turned out well. She understood that marrying for such frivolous reasons could only make a person unhappy.

Unable to wait any longer, he headed over to Lake Ale. To his delight, Annabel was already there when he arrived, stoking up the coal fire in the little room off the office.

“Jarret!” she cried as she turned to him, wearing a smile as broad as the Thames. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“Not on your life,” he said as he peeled off his coat and tossed it over a chair. “I had to consult with Pinter. It took longer than I expected.” Perhaps he should broach the subject of marriage first. Get it out of the way.

But if she turned him down, it would make things awkward between them.

He couldn’t chance that—not when he’d spent half the evening burning to bed her again. He walked up to sweep her
into his embrace. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

“How could you miss me?” she said, eyes filled with mischief. “You’ve seen me every day.”

“You know what I mean, you teasing wench.” He bent his head to nip her ear. “I missed the taste of these tender earlobes.” He speared his fingers into her coiffure to tug it loose of its pins. “The feel of your luscious hair between my hands. And this …”

He kissed her hot, deep, and long, with all the passion he’d kept banked during their many meetings and dinners. He kissed her until she trembled and pressed her body flush against his.

When he broke the kiss, he said in a husky whisper, “I missed this most of all—having you in my arms and holding you against me.” He began to undress her, so hungry for her that he couldn’t wait a moment more. “Did you miss it, too?”