Her Mad Baron (33 page)
Authors: Kate Rothwell
“Every minute.” She wrinkled her nose at him. God almighty, he loved that nose. And the way she crooked the corner of the mouth when she thought she’d won a mock battle. He was about to tell her so when she cupped his head to pull him back to her mouth. Sinking into the kiss, he let go of words for the moment, confident he’d be able to call them back when he needed them.
Runcle arrived that afternoon and Florrie followed Nathaniel into the small back drawing room where the big man waited for them. Runcle’s round face wore an angry scowl, and Florrie wondered if he resented being summoned to the country. Even the waxed ends of his mustache looked less jaunty than usual.
“My lord. Ma’am. My lady, I mean.” His scowl deepened. Nathaniel motioned for him to sit down, and he only shook his head. “Won’t take but a minute of your time, your lordships. I know what I’m here for, and I wanted to come to you in person. It was my boy, Matt. And I promise you, I’m as ashamed as can be.”
Nathaniel waited until Florrie sat on the sofa, then took a chair near her. He looked grave but not particularly thin-lipped. “I see,” he said.
She wasn’t sure she saw. “Matt is your son?” she asked Runcle. “And you’re angry with him?”
“More’n angry. He’s the one who went to those lawyers. Maller was going to pay him a pretty sum to get you to call off the dogs. I got all he told them out of him and I can promise that at least he’d kept the, ah, stories to himself. Hardly makes it any better since maybe he’d use those secrets to get more out of you later, my lord.” He rubbed his side whiskers. “When Lord Felston sent word of what was happening, I knew it could not have been no other, except my other boy, Pete.” He blinked rapidly as if fighting tears. “I promise you, there’ll be a reckoning.”
Now Florrie understood. “His son is Mr. Smith?” she asked in a low voice.
Nathaniel nodded without taking his eyes off the angry private investigator. “Runcle, the note he sent had some talk of other evidence and—”
“You leave it to me, Lord Felston.”
“The note mentioned witnesses, to Duncan’s sale of the stolen knife I imagine.”
Runcle pursed his large lips. “If it comes to that, I’ll go ask those witnesses a few more questions. I know how to get ‘em confused. And it’s been a while since that occurrence.” His grim frown deepened. “Isn’t something I like, mind. But that boy can’t be threatening customers, neither.” He drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
He looked so distressed, Florrie was moved to platitudes. “I’m sure it will be fine. Please, may I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Runcle?”
His startled look told her that her offer to treat him like a regular guest was probably not common—or welcome. “No, thank you, m’lady. I got work ahead of me.” For just a moment his heavy face lightened. “I found a good lead on that man Grub, my lord. I suspect I’ll find him soon. But I first got to right the wrong we Runcles done you.”
She almost pointed out that she had actually done the original wrongs Matt uncovered but didn’t think Nathaniel would approve.
Mr. Runcle held out a beefy hand. “Might I have his note, my lord?”
Nathaniel handed over the sadly wrinkled sheet of paper.
“That’s my Matt’s hand,” Mr. Runcle growled. He touched one drooping end of his mustache as he stared at the paper. “He’ll rue the day, I promise.”
He walked to the door. “He’ll be talking to those lawyers again, you can be certain of that. Giving back what they paid him for certain. Good day, my lord. Lady Felston.”
He left the room, and Florrie felt able to breathe more easily. Runcle’s anger was enough to suck all the air from the room. After her fear of Smith, and the threat of being publicly exposed as a thief, she should have been more light-hearted at this second. But she realized her heart couldn’t grow any lighter. It had soared since the moment Nathaniel confessed his love.
She listened to the sound of a horse’s hooves on the gravel, Runcle taking off at a gallop. “I almost feel sorry for his boy, Matt.”
“I don’t.” Nathaniel sounded distracted. “I’ll make sure Burny gets another man on it. See that Runcle does as he promises.”
“You are suspicious.”
“Certainly. I won’t have you dragged to the dock. I already made that clear, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” She grinned at him. “I wonder that you should talk about my crimes. I am certain some of the things you’ve done to me lately are entirely against the law.”
At last his grim, distracted frown dissolved into a gleaming smile. Just like that, her stuffy husband became the dangerous lover. “Oh yes, indeed. Depraved too. I need you to help me with that side of my personality.”
“Help you suppress it?” she asked. Already her heart beat a little faster, and her body felt the flip and sink of arousal.
“Heavens, no. Or perhaps I should say hell no? Encourage it. Teach me more.” He made a slow circle, examining the drawing room with its faded rose-colored hangings and watercolors of local landmarks.
When he faced her again, he stepped toward her. “I don’t believe we’ve visited this room yet. I shall make it my ambition to visit every room in this grim pile of rocks with you. Lie down.”
“I believe I understand what you mean when you say
visit.
We shouldn’t be doing that sort of thing. Especially not in the middle of the day,” she said, and backed away from him.
“Are you a coward? Never,” he said.
The backs of her knees hit the sofa near the fireplace. With a flurry of skirts and petticoats and a loud squawk, she landed on the sofa. She started to get up, but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her for a kiss.
Her breath came fast as he knelt over her.
“Wicked, wicked man,” she whispered. He stroked her hair, kissed her breast through her green velvet gown, and moved down to kiss her belly. She lifted her hips when he pulled up the hem of her gown.
Humming to himself, he pushed her gown and petticoats up to her thighs. For a moment he gazed down at her nearly bare legs, and before she could grow self-conscious, he bent his head. He ran his hands then his tongue along the skin of her upper thigh between her stocking and her corset, obviously preparing to perform still more degenerate acts.
“Ah, good. No drawers,” he said happily, and settled between her legs.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, closed her eyes, and surrendered to his evil plans.
The End
THE END
KATE ROTHWELL
Kate also writes as Summer Devon. She lives in Connecticut and has the standard-issue two dogs, three kids, and one husband. She owns a car that used to belong to Gene Weingarten.
For more information, you can find her all over the internet:
https://www.facebook.com/S.DevonAuthor
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OTHER BOOKS BY KATE/SUMME
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With Bonnie Dee:
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(m/f contemporary). Samhain
What happens when a respectable spinster inherits a powerful aphrodisiac? She has trouble on her hands. When several less-than-savory characters come looking for it, she will need some help. She turns for help from one of those shady young men.
An EXCERPT FROM
POWER OF SIN
Chapter
One
New York, 1880
The lawyer stood in Rosalie’s library, twittering with agitation. Mr. Dorsey rocked—heel, toe, heel, toe—as he handed her a velvet-lined leather case containing an emerald-and-diamond necklace and earrings. “I wanted to give you the two most valuable objects from your cousin’s estate. The rest of the jewels were entailed. These emeralds belonged to Lord Williamsford’s mother.
“And then there’s this.” He laid the other object—a box—on her desk and gave it a look of loathing as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped his hands thoroughly, and at last settled into the leather chair at the other side of the desk.
Rosalie tossed the emeralds’ case onto the desk and reached for the box. She stroked the red-tinted, gleaming wood.
Mr. Dorsey squeaked and coughed. “You must take care when you handle that, Miss Ambermere.”
“Oh. Why?” Her forefinger traced circles over the plain lid.
He twisted the end of his gray mustache and looked unhappy. “Your cousin…” His voice faltered, and he twisted some more.
Rosalie remained patient. Mr. Dorsey was like a pop-eyed, anxious creature that had to be coaxed rather than bullied. She picked up the box, which was surprisingly heavy for its size. “Mr. Dorsey, I understand your reluctance to speak ill of the dead, but if you have something important to tell me, please do. I won’t take offense if you say something unpleasant about my cousin.”
“Miss Ambermere, I-I can only say I didn’t trust Lord Williamsford.”
“Indeed, I’m glad to hear that. Neither did I.” She stroked the little box again and was seized by the urge to rub her cheek against the sleek wood.
He coughed again. “Therefore, it might be best if you take one of the two very generous offers I have received for that particular item. Immediately.” He pointed at it, and she swore his finger trembled. “I don’t think you ought to handle this box unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
She rested it on her lap. “What does it contain?”
He cleared his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose. It might have been a response to the pollen in the air, but more likely Mr. D. was trying to think of new euphemisms with which to confuse her.
“I do need to understand what I have inherited,” she said gently.
Mr. Dorsey frowned at the box. “The late lord, your cousin, though he had a very pleasant demeanor, I’m afraid he was not entirely a gentleman.”
Rosalie’s mouth twitched, but she managed to hold back laughter.
Cousin Johnny, her father's heir, had been thoroughly wicked. A man with too much time on his hands, he’d taken up the art of seduction as full-time employment. He had a dreadful reputation, which was precisely why she had sought him out. Her visits to him had formed part of her campaign to force her father to banish her from England so she could return to the States and her mother.
Rosalie’d been smart enough to bring a maid and two footmen when she went to call on her cousin. During their meetings, he’d made several efforts to get under her skirts, but when she said no and refused to remain alone in the room with him, he didn’t hold a grudge.
