A Tall Dark Stranger (11 page)

“Never mind trying to shift the onus on to me. So you’re going back on our bargain!”

“Not at all. You were kind enough to accompany me and I must pay the price, but can’t we reach a compromise? Ask me anything else. Anything. A fair exchange is no robbery.”

He gazed for a moment into my eyes. I read a challenge there. “Is there nothing of a more personal nature you care to know about me?” he asked in an insinuating manner.

“And you promise to tell the truth?”

He looked leery. “Oh, dear, why do I have the feeling I’m hopping from the frying pan into the fire?”

He was right about that. I meant to give him a good roasting about chasing after my fortune.

“That will teach you to renege on a bargain. I want the truth, the whole truth—”

“And nothing but the truth. You would make a fine lawyer, ma’am. Do you remember Portia? ‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d.’ More is expected of a lady lawyer than a mere male.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Renshaw. My question is: Why are you
really
here? Beau never mentioned you before. You can’t be bosom bows. A brief visit to a school chum might pass muster, but you’ve been with him for days now and show no intention of leaving.”

“You make me sound like a piker! I brought him a case of very fine sherry from—” He came to a guilty stop.

“Wine would certainly be the way to Beau’s heart. You’re not eighteen years old, like Lollie, to be loitering in the neighborhood because of the murder and theft. Are you sure you don’t have an ulterior motive for all these drives out with me?”

I sat back, enjoying his discomfort. Auntie had half convinced me that he was courting me for my dowry, and as he squirmed and turned pink, I felt she had hit it on the head. It was a disappointment, but I hadn’t quite fallen in love with Renshaw yet. Maitland still had a strong-enough grip on my imagination to prevent it. Blame it on my soft heart—or on Renshaw’s boyish embarrassment or on Portia. I let him off the hook.

“It’s all right, Mr. Renshaw,” I said. “It was obvious from the beginning that you cared nothing for hops. I couldn’t quite believe the ten thousand a year, either. You should have made it a more reasonable five. I expect Beau put you up to it. I can almost hear him,”

Renshaw sat with his head bent and his ears pink, looking well and thoroughly ashamed of himself. I decided the kindest thing was to make a joke of it.

“My neighbor has fifteen thousand,” I said, trying to imitate Beau’s deep voice. “Not a beauty, but she ain’t an antidote, either, and getting on. She’s two and twenty—at her last prayers for a husband. She can sit a mount well enough. Draws weeds for a pastime. Deuced odd gel.”

Renshaw finally lifted his head. “And has blue eyes,” he added. His own eyes were alight with laughter, and some lingering embarrassment. “You’re too clever for me. I’m sorry, Miss Talbot, but I don’t want to leave you with the notion that I’m only a fortune hunter. I
was
left the hop farm. It used to bring in ten thousand a year, once upon a time, and could again with good management.”

“Then why don’t you go home and manage it?”

“You’re eager to be rid of me! I’m not finished my explanation, ma’am. It wasn’t quite the way you say. I merely inquired of Beau if there were any pretty ladies in the neighborhood. He mentioned one or two. ‘My neighbor, Amy Talbot, is a pretty chick,’ he said. ‘I’ll introduce you.’ ‘What does she look like?’ I asked. ‘She’s pretty,’ he said again.
I
would have said beautiful. ‘Blonde, brunette, or redhead?’ I asked. ‘Sort of brownish,’ he said, ‘with blue eyes.’ Your bonnet shaded your eyes that morning. I could see they were large and lustrous, but not their color.”

He inclined his head closer to mine, gazing deeply into my eyes. “I’ve never seen eyes just that shade— lighter than emeralds, darker than peridots. Ripening emeralds, perhaps, before they achieve their full hue.”

There was some hypnotic force in his gaze or in the soft murmur of his voice. As he spoke, his head kept coming closer to mine until our lips were only inches apart. And still he kept up that soft murmur.

“I love the way your hair wantons in the breeze, like a Botticelli grace. Don’t look at me like that, Miss Talbot. Is it
my
fault you’re so irresistible?”

When our lips finally met, his were still murmuring against mine, which had the peculiar effect of making me feel as if he were nibbling my lips. His speech died on a whisper as he drew me into his arms and his moving lips finally firmed in a real kiss. I had often imagined being kissed ... by Morris Maitland.

As the embrace deepened, I forgot all about Maitland and gave myself up to this new sensation. In my imagination the kisses had not been like this. They were a localized affair, affecting only the lips. Now I felt a glowing heat gathering inside me and an expanding of the lungs that left me both limp and yet energized. I felt a pulse pounding in my throat. The rustling of the trees seemed to be coming from far away.

I knew I should stop Renshaw, yet I felt powerless to do it. While he kissed me, I just sat like a perfect statue, drinking in all these strange, but pleasant, sensations. My arms made a jerking motion, wanting to hold him, but I managed to control them.

When Renshaw finally lifted his head, I noticed my hands had attached themselves to his shoulders. I gazed at him, wild-eyed with astonishment. My breaths came in shallow pants. Not Renshaw’s.

“Control yourself, Miss Talbot,” he said. The sparkle of laughter lurked in his eyes as he drew back a curl that had worked loose and tucked it back into my bonnet. His fingers brushed lower to cup my jaw in his warm fingers. “I shall have to insist that you wear green glasses the next time we drive out or the neighbors will think me no better than I should be, letting myself be mauled so intimately on a public road.”

He seemed to expect some bantering reply to this. I could think of nothing to say except “I believe we should go home now, Mr. Renshaw,” and even that came out in a breathless rush.

“You’re not angry with me?” he asked, drawing his gloves back on.

“No,” I said witlessly. Then finally normal thought returned to my numbed senses and I added with a wretched attempt at playfulness, “As you said, it’s not your fault that I’m so irresistible.”

But I knew better, of course. It wasn’t Amy Talbot who was irresistible. It was Renshaw, with his nibbling kisses and laughing dark eyes. I looked up and down the road to make sure no one had seen us.

“We’re quite alone,” he said. “The tree protects us from that house on the hill.”

“You certainly keep your wits about you when you’re seducing a lady!”

“Seducing!”
he exclaimed in what looked like genuine shock. “I must take issue with your language, Miss Talbot. Oh, damme, let me call you Amy. How can I give you a proper Bear Garden jaw when I must call you Miss?”

“You certainly may not call me Amy!”

“When we’re alone, at least, and don’t try to change the subject. I’m not trying to seduce you. Seduction implies some wrongdoing, leading a lady astray from the path of virtue. My intentions are honorable. I’m courting you, not trying to seduce you.”

“Why would you bother with me if you’re who you say you are?”

He just frowned, as if brooding over the question, while he studied me closely. “I had nothing to say about it. I met you and you were the one.
C’est tout.
I
felt as if I had been looking for you forever. It was like meeting the other half of myself.” He sounded as if he himself was surprised at his explanation.

I sniffed. He picked up the whip and peered down at me.
“Could
I seduce you, Amy?” he asked. “I’m not saying
may
I—naturally you must feign horror at the notion—but could I? You could have me for the taking. Have you felt nothing of what I feel? Would it be physically possible to seduce you?”

“Not without that whip,” I replied sternly, but, in fact, I felt weak in every joint at what he had said. The whole discussion was delightfully improper. He implied that I had some extraordinary power over him. The power of love. It was an awesome feeling.

Before it went quite to my head, I said, “I suggest you put the whip to better use and get these horses moving. In fact, turn around and take me home.”

His features adopted a more normal expression. “You plan to join Lollie in the meadow, looking for clues?”

“I have some work to do on my sketching,” I lied. I would go straight up to my bedroom and lie down on my bed and think about that kiss and Renshaw’s announcement that he was courting me. And about whether he meant it or was only joking. He sounded as if he meant it. This being the case, I had to decide whether I wanted him to do so. My body knew the answer, but I must let my mind have something to say about it.

He turned the rig around and cracked the whip over the grays’ heads. The curricle moved off at a spanking pace toward home.

“You’re not involved with Maitland, are you?” he asked. It wasn’t a casual question. A frown appeared between his eyes.

“I’ve never driven out with him. We’re casual friends, no more.”

“You say that in a rueful way. And you have a certain ... tremor in your speech when you speak of him. Makes me jealous as a green cow,” he added, grinning.

“He’s very handsome,” I allowed.

“I’m said to have a good profile.” He lifted his chin, showing me his silhouette in profile.

It was indeed a beguiling one: a prominent nose, a strong chin, nice lips ...

Oh, dear, how complicated life was. Surely a lady couldn’t be in love with two gentlemen at the same time. This must be thrashed out in the privacy of my room. I turned my mind to less evanescent matters. I wondered who the lady could be who had been with Maitland in the hut. Really, there wasn’t a single soul in the parish I could think of who would do anything so dashing. Except Mrs. Murray! I thought about this, among other things, while we drove home.

When we reached the house, I said two words, “Mrs. Murray,” and watched him closely.

His shocked expression told me I was right. “How did you ... I’m not confirming it!”

“There’s nobody else it
could
be. When were they together?”

He just shook his head. “Does it matter? You see why I asked you if you were involved with Maitland.”

I now knew Lollie was right about having seen her and Maitland in the hut. It certainly dimmed Maitland’s glow. I had always known he was rakish; it had added a certain
je
ne sais quoi
to his allure. But to be involved with a married neighbor was different. And a foolish, vain lady besides.

Mrs. Murray was not the sort of woman to cause a man to lose his head or his heart. A great, tragic love affair might have lessened the degradation of it all, but she was merely pretty and available. It would be a convenient dalliance while the Murrays were at home, and when they returned to London, she would be forgotten. I despised Maitland for it, and Mrs. Murray, too.

“She has club thumbs,” I said foolishly. What caused it was an image of her hands on Maitland’s shoulders, drawing him into an embrace.

Renshaw smiled. “I noticed.”

I felt my body stiffen. “When did you meet her?”

If Renshaw hadn’t turned pink, I might have thought little of it. He had been in the neighborhood for a few days now. He might have met her anywhere. I might even have believed his answer. But that telltale flush revealed too much.

“Beau introduced me the day I arrived, after we left your place. We met the Murrays in town, just outside the Boar’s Head.”

“Odd she wasn’t wearing gloves on the street,” I said, giving him a knowing look. She always wears gloves whenever possible, to hide those ugly thumbs.

“Yes, it’s odd,” he replied woodenly.

“Thank you for the drive, Mr. Renshaw.”

“You’re welcome, Amy. Will you be here tomorrow when I call on Lollie?”

“I shouldn’t think so. And I would prefer it if you would call me Miss Talbot.”

He just shook his head. “You surely don’t think I am carrying on with Mrs. Murray?” he asked.

“What is it to me if you are, Mr. Renshaw?”

“Amy!”
he said in such a familiar, chiding tone. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m a little particular about my friends. Folks gossip so in the country. Good day, Mr. Renshaw.”

I leaped down without his help and darted to the door. My ankle gave a sharp wince as I ran along, for the curricle seat was high off the ground and I hadn’t bothered with the step. I wanted only to dart up to my room, but my aunt came into the hallway when she heard the door open.

“Oh, it’s you, Amy. You’re back early. I thought you were Lollie. He hasn’t come back yet.”

“Is George with him?”

“Yes, he should be safe enough. Don’t forget we’re dining with the Murrays tonight,” she said, and turned to walk away.

“You didn’t tell me that!”

“She invited us the day I read her palm. In the commotion of the murder and all, I must have forgotten.”

The Murrays do a deal of socializing when they’re in the riding, to keep the voters in curl. Mrs. Murray was the last person I wanted to see that night, but the appointment had been made and it was one my aunt would have been looking forward to with much pleasure.

It made a diversion and it kept me from harping too much on Renshaw’s pretending to be in love with me and his familiarity with Mrs. Murray’s club thumbs.

Lollie returned unharmed but in a disgruntled mood. There was no sign of His Majesty’s agent but plenty of the fretful boy.

“I couldn’t discover a thing,” he said. “Beau had three or four of his friends flying all over the meadow, coursing hares. They were at it for hours. I’ll go out again tonight after the party at the Murrays’
.
”

“Wait until the morning and I’ll go with you,” I said.

“You forget Renshaw is letting me try his grays in the morning,” he said, brightening.

I had nothing so pleasurable to look forward to. Maitland and Renshaw were both carrying on with Mrs. Murray. I must sit at her table and smile for two hours, listening to Murray pontificate on political matters.