A Most Improper Rumor (5 page)

“Quite a brilliant strategy, isn’t it? At first I wondered if our meddler was benevolent and just maybe misguided in his methods, thinking he was a matchmaker. I’ve changed my mind. I think whoever orchestrated what happened to you fully expected you would walk away.”

A breathless gasp went up from the stands and Ben saw why. A horse was coming up fast from the back of the bunch, his long strides eating up the distance between him and the lead horse with impressive speed.

Would the gallant burst of energy so late in the race rule the day?

“What made you look at all this differently?” Andrews was as riveted on the race as he was, but he seemed to also be thinking about the case.

Nose to nose, the horses flashed across the line. From the vantage point of his exclusive box, he didn’t envy the judges their ruling on which horse might be the winner. Ben said, “I think your horse just won, and mine lost, but this was my colt’s first race and he acquitted himself well, didn’t he? It is the same thing with our villain. The first time was effective but clumsy. By the time he tried with you and Elena, he was much more refined. With practice, he could be formidable indeed.”

Viscount Andrews didn’t even show the proper elation over their mutual triumph. Instead he said grimly, “I think I see what you mean.”

Chapter 6

T
hey dashed in from the rain, laughing. Angelina swept off her hat, shook the silvery droplets from the brim, and gasped in mirth once more. “I didn’t think we would escape a good drenching.”

Eve peered out at the sheets of rain falling outside the gazebo. “We just missed it, I think.” She smoothed her damp skirts, her red hair, always unruly, curled wildly in the damp air where strands had escaped her chignon. Slightly plump, with a generous smattering of freckles and ingenuous blue eyes, she was pretty in a robust sort of way. As her father was an earl, she had her share of suitors, but she remained unmarried by choice.

Lady Eve had been a stalwart friend through the worst of it all, including the trial.

That awful, humiliating, terrifying trial.

“At least it isn’t windy,” Angelina pointed out, surveying their surroundings. “The rain is coming straight down; just a cloudburst. The chairs look dry.”

“And dusty,” Eve replied. “I almost never venture into this part of the garden. I don’t think anyone has in ages.”

“I do appreciate your inviting me for the weekend.” Angelina brushed off a cushion and took a seat. Cloudburst it might be, but the rain didn’t show any sign of letting up. “Just a few days in London and I was ready for the countryside again. I guess I’ve grown used to the quiet.”

It hadn’t been entirely unpleasant, though, she had to admit. She had agreed to one illicit night at a small inn near the Thames . . . Christopher had insisted and she had given in because if she had learned anything about being in love, it was that the barriers she’d erected so carefully around her emotions were useless against him.

She should resist, but she could not.

“Did you see
him
when you were in town?”

The quiet question made her glance up. Eve had also settled on one of the chairs despite her disdain for the condition of the unused gazebo, her gaze inquiring. Angelina weighed her answer. Even with Eve she hadn’t been forthcoming. “Who?” she asked after a moment.

“The man who has brought you out of seclusion.”

It was irritating to be so transparent. Denial was tempting, but then again this was
Eve
.

“I did see him.”

And it was wickedly wonderful
.

“You have this look when you think of him, which seems to be often.” Eve sighed. “You never had it with William or even Thomas, but I thoroughly recognize that dreamy expression. I’ve had it myself no doubt.”

That was a somewhat startling revelation. “You have?”

“Angel, do you imagine I’ve never been in love? Why else have I never married? Now, tell me about him.”

No, tell me about your secret
. As private as Angelina might be now, apparently Eve was just as closemouthed. It made it all a little easier, actually.

“I’ve always wondered,” she murmured, the rain giving the illusion of isolation. “You’ve never shown an interest in anyone specific.”

“I suspect I have,” her friend said with nothing but a shrug. “Our first season you were a spectacular success and your suitors took up your attention. Then it was William’s death, and the moment your mourning was over, Thomas petitioned your father for your hand. You haven’t had
time
to notice.”

“I’m very sorry I did not, and I’m still curious.” She was. They were best friends and Eve had never once mentioned a name.

“Not as curious as I am now.” Eve narrowed her eyes. “Something has definitely happened. You have a . . . I don’t know . . . an
air
about you. I am not sure how else to describe it.”

No doubt she did. It was happiness. Newfound, cherished, secret happiness.

But obviously she hadn’t concealed it well enough.

So, with the rain sluicing down as if the heavens meant to entirely empty every drop, Angelina gave in. Not completely, but a fraction anyway. “He wants to marry me.”

“Of course he does. You are the most beautiful woman in England.”

She laughed. “Your loyalty is touching, but I certainly hope his affection is for more than just how I look.”

“I feel certain it is. So he proposed. And?”

And what? She didn’t know. What
would
happen next? Would Lord Heathton set her free by finding the killer? Or was she deluded and it was all a dream because her life was not the fairy tale she’d once imagined, but more a dark story woven with intrigue as the thread and murder as the cloth?

She said evasively, “He isn’t like any man I’ve ever known.”

“Ah.”

It was instinctive to look for disapproval, but Eve’s eyes merely held a sharp interest. Angelina so far had held fast to her intention of not revealing her lover’s name to anyone and she wasn’t about to change that even now, even with Eve; but not being able to discuss him at all was a burden. In a quiet murmur, she declared, “He’s different.”

“I believe you just said that.” Eve lifted her brows.

“Completely.”

“How so?”

“In every way.” Angelina contemplated the rain-sheened windows. “Handsome, but that isn’t so significant. He’s brilliant. Accomplished. Famous even.”

They had much in common in that regard, though his fame was for his genius, not his black deeds. It was different, and yet hauntingly the same. They truly suited each other.

“Then I would know him?”

“If you haven’t been introduced, you’d know of him anyway.” She wasn’t going to say his name. “I don’t want to ruin his reputation by his association with me. It rather hurts to admit, but it is true.”

“You and I are still friends and it doesn’t damage me at all.”

“Liar,” Angelina said softly. “I know you have argued with your parents over our continued friendship. They would rather you didn’t associate with an alleged murderess, and from a purely intellectual point of view, I don’t even blame them. They wish to protect you.”

“Nonsense. I know I am in no danger from you.” Eve looked indignant.

“No, you aren’t,” she agreed, summoning a composed smile. “Not in a physical sense, but in a social one; I am not a popular choice in companions. I assume the compromise is that your father agrees for you to invite me here to Ivytree Hall if you will avoid me in public. Luckily, I don’t go out often when I am in London, nor do I attend many events simply because I am no longer invited. Surprisingly enough, I like my quiet life for the most part.”

Eve reached over in her impulsive way and took her hand in both of hers. “I would never avoid you. You are far and away my closest friend and that will never change. Now then, what are you going to do?”

Other than to Lord Heathton, she hadn’t revealed to anyone that she thought both William and Thomas had actually been poisoned. Gently freeing her hand, she stood restlessly and walked to the edge of the gazebo. The rain was finally easing up, the soft sound mellow now on the domed roof of the little folly. “I don’t know. It is difficult to accept how an open association with me would change his life. I love him, and were I free, I would gladly become his wife. But I am chained to the past, fettered by scandal and suspicion. Until that changes, I can’t agree to his offer.”

“Not to be the voice of gloom, but I am not sure how you can change the past, darling.”

When she turned around, Angelina saw Eve’s face held a troubled expression. “No,” she said evenly, “I cannot change what has happened, but maybe I can change how people remember it. Now then, I think the rain has stopped. Shall we continue our walk?”

* * *

They were walking in a meadow, hand in hand, the feel of her slender fingers cool as they interlocked with his, her long ebony hair loose and flowing. The sun gilded her smooth skin to gold and long dark lashes threw shadows on her cheekbones. With every step her breasts swayed provocatively under the bodice of her gown, and her fragrance was as delicate and light as the flowers around them.

Then he laid her down, his heart beating so quickly he took in a long breath before he kissed her, lips clinging, his hand roaming over every soft curve, every inch of delectable skin as he disrobed her. Ripe breasts beckoned his mouth and his hand was between her thighs, finding the warmth of paradise as she opened for him, pulling him closer and murmuring his name
 . . .

And then, suddenly, he was alone, panting, confused, sprawled in the crushed grass with his clothing scattered, naked and aroused but bereft. The birds were no longer singing, the air was ominously still and utterly quiet, and instead of cerulean blue skies, it was overcast and the breeze had turned chillingly cold . . .

She was nowhere to be seen.

Christopher woke, rolling over, and there was nothing but his bedroom, the usual dark blue bed curtains, the Italian marble fireplace barely visible in the gloom, the armoire in the corner. The sheets were tangled around him, his breathing slowing from panic to a more-normal respiration as reality returned.

He sat up, ran his hands through his hair, and exhaled audibly. “Just a nightmare, you fool,” he said out loud, both irritated and relieved. Well, not all of it a nightmare. The first part had been quite promising and he had the erection still to prove it.

Slipping out of bed, he went and used the chamber pot, splashed cold water on his face, and picked up his dressing gown to shrug into it. Then he wandered to the window. London slept, or as much as the city ever did, the streets of Mayfair quiet at this hour, dawn still an hour away from the position of the hands on the ormolu clock on the mantel.

The symbolism of the dream did not escape him. It wasn’t that he fancied himself a philosopher, but no particular genius was needed to decipher that panicked sensation of sudden loss, of the swift and utter abandonment, of the desolation of solitude.

Angelina had her demons and so did he. That hers were obvious to the world and his were not made no difference.

Kindred souls. Yes, he thought she was the most gloriously lovely woman he’d ever seen, and he desired her beyond rational thought, beyond propriety, beyond anything he valued in his life; but he also found music in her laugh, a singular enchantment when he looked into her silver eyes, and, most important, peace in her presence, even when they were both silent and absorbed in other tasks.

And he very much longed for peace.

How unjust was it that he’d found the right woman and couldn’t have her? Oh, he’d had her in a literal sense, many times, with heated desire, with slow tenderness, with feverish need . . . but he wanted to keep her. Not own her, never that, but to make her his in every way possible, so that instead of sharing her with the world, they shared the world together.

Poetic, he thought in cynical humor at his own romantic musings, one shoulder braced against the window frame and his brooding gaze fastened on the rooftops as the sun came up.

A busy day lay ahead. He was meeting with the king’s advisers to discuss a construction project, the designs for which were not quite complete. Since it seemed unlikely he’d go back to sleep, he might as well get dressed and go downstairs to his study.

A mere two hours later, when Christopher was finishing his first cup of coffee, the Earl of Heathton was announced by his scandalized butler. True, the hour was appallingly early by the standards of their class, but he didn’t care about that as he’d been up since before the first hint of daylight. It was more they didn’t know each other all that well and the call that startled him was unprecedented.

When his lordship strolled in, Christopher abandoned his diagrams and estimates and rose to indicate a seat. “Heathton. Please sit down.”

“Thank you.” Benjamin Wallace unerringly chose the best chair, sank into it, and negligently crossed his booted feet. “Forgive the unorthodox hour, but I knew you would be up.”

Considering the slightness of their acquaintance, that was a surprising assumption, but before he could ask why his unexpected guest presumed that, Heathton silenced him with the question, “Why is it you are so assured that Lady DeBrooke is not a bloodthirsty creature who poisons her husbands?”

So Heathton understands not only my morning habits but knows of the affair I haven’t mentioned to a single soul?

Admittedly at a loss for a moment, Christopher looked at the man sitting so nonchalantly across from him and weighed his answer. The earl seemed content to wait, his expression unfathomable, his tall body relaxed.

He finally chose a noncommittal reply. “In court, in front of a magistrate of some renown, they failed to convince him that she did. Why, pray tell, do you ask me?”

“You are her lover, and you wish to marry her. Taking that into consideration, I must also consider that you are a man of some intelligence and wonder why you are so convinced she is not a threat. Others don’t agree. I am still musing over the matter but am inclined to take your side. To that end, give me your reasons as long as they are not solely based upon passion.”

Passion. Yes, he and Angelina did have that. The first time he’d seen her in that drawing room, her chin high but her magnificent eyes slightly downcast, he had not known who she was. All he’d seen was the single most compelling beauty yet in his twenty-seven years, her figure gracefully elegant, her gown modest, her lustrous hair simply done because she really needed no ornament. Had the room not gone so silent, he would have thought it was for the sheer impact of her arrival—he was certainly tongue-tied—but then someone standing next to him murmured, “Ah, I see we get to spend the evening with the Dark Angel. I hope I am not sitting next to her during the soup course.”

Dark Angel. He recognized the nickname, but only vaguely, because gossip bored him. He liked to imagine buildings standing tall or design ornate gardens, not listen to the ridiculous machinations of the idle and wealthy.

But then again, he also had never believed it was possible to look at another human being and feel the sleight of hand fate might deal out.

He fell in love. Before he’d even spoken to her. Before she’d glanced up as he handed her a glass of champagne and smiled at him with only a shy, almost cynical curve of her lips. Before he introduced himself because no one else seemed inclined to do the honors. It was not how it was politely done, but then again, he’d never cared for convention all that much and it meant no one else was part of the first moment.