Marry the Man Today (11 page)

"The ladies' club."

Certain he was right, Ross grabbed the bulk of the Hayden-Co
l
e file and started flipping through the pages, until his heart ground to a stop.

"Here! Lady Hayden-Cole's footman, a Mr. Rowley, says, 'I was supposed to pick her up outside the museum at two-thirty and drive her to afternoon tea at her ladies' club.' "

Drew shook his head at Ross, obviously not catching on to the biggest clue of all, where it was plain as day to him. "I don't understand."

"Damnation, Drew, the only ladies' club in London is the Abigail Adams."

"An
d
...?"

"Blast it all, that's the connection! It has to be! If I'm not mistaken, all three of these women belonged to the Abigail Adams. She lied to me!"

"Who?"

"Miss Elizabeth Dunaway." Fresh-faced and intensely intelligent. "The owner of the Abigail Adams!
 
The most stubborn, irritating being on the face of the earth."

Drew was looking at him in bewildered astonishment. "That stubborn, is she?"

"Cunning as a damned fox. She knew I was looking for evidence about the other two abductions."

"How?"

"I met her at Scotland Yard."

"What was she doing at Scotland Yard?"

"It's a very long story. Suffice it to say that she heard about the earlier kidnappings from the Lord Mayor at the same time I did."

"Ah. That is suspicious." Drew raised his eyebrow, obviously amused by the whole thing. "But why would Miss Dunaway keep the information from you? Unless .. . she's the fiend we're looking for?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Though he wouldn't be surprised if the woman had withheld the information just to thwart him. "She's jus
t
. . . stubborn, as I said."

"And bloody beautiful, by the sound of your blustering."

"She promised to cooperate with me." Ross's ears began to burn as he started gathering the papers back into the three scattered files.

"Is Miss Dunaway a young woman?" Drew was sitting on the edge of the table, following Ross's every move.

"Old enough to understand the seriousness of this investigation. I'll not have her playing me the fool."

"So I take it that Miss Dunaway is beautiful?"

"She's dangerous. To every woman in London."

"Please, Ross. Caro will have my hide if you don't give me a few facts about the woman." The man cast him a pitiful look he didn't understand.

"What are you talking about?"

"When I tell Caro about how upset you were about the cunning Miss Dunaway, whom you met at Scotland Yard, she's going to plague me with questions about her."

"Why would you tell Caro?"

"She's my wife. I tell her everything."

"Why?"

"It's safer that way. You'll understand when you're married. Now what will I say to Caro about Miss Dunaway when she asks?"

"I just told you she was stubborn and irritating and—"

"And a beauty. Right?"

Try as he might, Ross couldn't help the smile that filled his chest and overtook his mouth. He started to answer but Drew held up his palm.

"Say no more. I understand perfectly." Drew was grinning broadly at him, as though he'd just confessed his heart in song. "Just remember, my friend, the stubborn ones are the most dangerous of all. Have yourself a good night."

With that, Drew left the archive room.

Ross planned to have a good night, all right.

Miss Dunaway, on the other hand, was going to have a night she wouldn't soon forget.

Chapter 8

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take;

But every woman is at heart a rake.

Alexander Pope,
Moral Essays,
17
75

“You're
safe with us here, Lydia," Elizabeth whispered to the shadowed figure curled up beneath the thick down of the counterpane. "Sweet dreams."

But the beleaguered young woman was already fast asleep, her face relaxed now, the livid bruises paler in the soft light of Elizabeth's single candle. Much better than they had been when she arrived two days ago.

Two days that had seemed like twenty. Heralding weeks that overflowed with things to be done.

Yawning with the need for her bed, and finally satisfied that Lydia would have a long, restful night, Elizabeth drew her robe more closely around her nightgown, slipped out of the corner guest room and padded down the corridor to her own spacious suite of three rooms.

The north-facing corner of the Adams was the only home she had at the moment. But she was exactly where she needed to be. Smack-dab in the middle of the bustle of London. Everything so vastly different from the slow-moving life she'd loved in the country with her dear and eccentric aunts.

Great-great-aunts, really. Two of the most remarkable people she'd ever known. The Hasleton sisters had taken her into their hearts when she was orphaned as an infant. They had filled her life with wonders and their country estate with poets and philosophers, adventurers and inventors.

And how dearly she missed them both. Their advice and their humor and their unflagging confidence in her.

"You can do anything with your life, Elizabeth," Aunt Tiberia had been forever telling her, with a shake of her fist toward the sky.

And Aunt Clarice, always trying to best her older sister, "But whatever you choose to do, my sweet, look 'em right in the eye when you do it."

Right in the eye.

"Do you hear that, Blakestone?" Elizabeth said into the long shadows of the corridor. "Right in the eye."

But what if those eyes were dark and fierce and oh, so compelling? What if they had the power to muddle her thoughts? And cause her pulse to flutter wildly?

What if the low rumble of his voice set her heart soaring, made her laugh and sigh? What if she craved the touch of his mouth, yearned for the feel of his hands against her skin, for the intimacies that usually came only with marriage. . . .

Of course, marriage was simply impossible. For a world of reasons. But most practically, because she could never trust a husband with her financial affairs. After all, her fortune was the sum of her independence. And too many people depended on her independence for her to risk their lives and happiness on a marriage.

Aunt Tiberia had always been quick to advise her to weigh the risk to her future. "To marry, Elizabeth, is to surrender your independence and your considerable fortune to a man. And you'll soon learn that men are only good for one thing, my dear. Though they are very, very good at that one thing."

Aunt Tiberia had always been open with her about the desires of the flesh. Though she'd never gone into much detail about exactly what that one "good thing" was, beyond the act of sexual intercourse itself. Or how she herself had learned this particular fact. Though rumors among those who knew her aunts had always been taken as true. Tales of their brazen lifestyle when they were youn
g
—

And foolish,
Aunt Clarice would always add with a wistful smile and a throaty giggle.

Yes, marriage was definitely out of the question. Absolutely and forever.

But sex . . . now, that was definitely in her future. When and how brought on another set of questions. However,
with whom
posed a more interesting and immediate question. Because for the first time in her life she had begun to entertain fantasies about a particular man.

Blatant imaginings of the earl himself. Hot. Glistening. Naked. Oh, my yes, she could almost imagine that! Wondering if he would ... if she could muster the courage to invite him to .. . beg him t
o
—

"Oh, damn and blast!" What foolishness! She didn't even know if he was married or not. And that would make all the difference.

She shook off the intoxicating image, then slipped through her private foyer into her sitting room, with its office alcove in the large bay of the window.

A warm breeze teased its way through the curtains there, riffling the moonlight across the carpeting.

An airy, everyday breeze. Though tonight something about it slowed her progress as she reached the center of the room.

A stirring scent, a familiar heat. A thrilling tumble of sensations.

"B
l
akestone!"

She felt the man before she saw him. Leaning against the open door to her bedchamber beyond, as though he'd been waiting for her to return to their bed and its rumpled heap of still warm bedclothes they'd been wrapped in.

"Good evening, madam." His voice rumbled across the dimness of the room, caressed her breasts and spread through her limbs like warm honey.

Her heart should have been slamming around inside her at the man's startling materialization in the middle of her rooms. But it was keeping a steady beat, as though it had been expecting him all along.

As though he'd known that she'd been hoping for him to come to her some starry night.

Though he didn't look at all pleased with her just now.

"Good evening, Lord Blakestone." She steadied her breathing and went straight to the side table to light its globe lamp, surprised at the calm of her fingers among the dangling prisms. "Can I get you a cup of tea or a brandy?"

He said nothing, only glared at her from the doorway, taking up the whole of the opening to her bedchamber. Filling her chest with a kind of breathy anticipation that she didn't know what to do with.

"I hope you don't make a habit of calling on ladies in the wee hours by breaking into their homes and frightening them to death."

"You don't look frightened to me."

She wasn't. Not in the least. Though she could feel the caged anger in him, seething in his muscles, directed at her for some unimaginable reason. Making him look larger than ever in the dimness.

"Nevertheless, if you'd be so kind and tell me how you got in here. I'd like to bar the way from the next prowler who might come along."

The next arrogant lout to invade her privacy. Though none could ever be quite so pleasing to the eye.

"You needn't worry on that point, madam. I'll seal my way as I leave."

Seal his way? Of all the bloody, invasive nerve! What did that mean?

And who the devil did the blackguard think he was; coming and going in her home, whenever and wherever he pleased?

Look him right in the eye, Elizabeth.

Right in the eye.

Taking Aunt Clarice's advice into her heart, she struck a resolute pose, fists on her hips, just to prove that his temper hadn't impressed her, that she wasn't afraid of his unyielding glare.

"See here, Blakestone, I've given you every opportunity to tell me why you've broken into my rooms in the middle of the night. It's late. Now, what is it you want from me?"

She heard him take a long, fierce breath, as though trying to dampen his anger before answering. "What I want from you, Miss Dunaway, is the honesty that you promised me when I started this investigation."

"Honesty?" Oh, that. Oh, dear. Her heart took off like a wild rabbit, thumping madly in her chest, stifling her breathing.

Because she couldn't afford to be at all honest with the man. He'd already gotten too close to a truth that she couldn't possibly reveal to him.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my lord. I've gone out of my way to be honest wit
h
—"

"Who is Lady Hayden-Co
l
e?"

Elizabeth caught a breath in her throat, but it closed off into a lump of cold fear, making it even more difficult to breathe. Or to think clearly, with all the questions banging around in her head.

Where was he trying to go with this? What had he learned in his snooping?

She certainly couldn't tell from his stance. The huge man had yet to move a muscle, still stood there like a living mountain, leaning silently against the door frame.

Feigning a nonchalance she didn't feel, Elizabeth idly sat down in her favorite chair, lounging as though he were an afternoon guest at teatime, hoping she could lead him away from the subject and her bedroom door.

But her mouth dried to paste as she asked casually, "Lady Hayden-Co
l
e? I'm sure I—"

"And Lady Gwyneth Cladsbury?" He'd cut her off with a coldly controlled cadence. His teeth gleamed in menace beyond the wall of shadows between them.

And had he just growled at her?

"Cladsbury ... ?" The rest of her prevaricating stuck in her throat.

"That's right, Miss Dunaway, Lady Cladsbury." He was standing free of the doorjamb now, though planted like a statue in the doorway. "While I was here a few days ago inquiring about Lady Wallace, you neglected to tell me that the two other women who have been abducted from the streets of London in broad daylight were also members of the Abigail Adams."