Midnight Pleasures (13 page)

Up in Sophie’s bedroom, Patrick was leaning on one elbow, looking down at Braddon’s—no,
his
future wife. As he watched, Sophie opened her eyes and looked up at him, eyes midnight blue in the dusky light.

Patrick ran a finger over her lower lip. “We’re going to have to find Braddon another wife, you know. We can’t just leave him in the lurch. What a pity that you don’t have a sister, my love!”

“Or you,” Sophie said impishly. A telltale blush was rising up her neck. She was in bed, unclothed (at least she seemed to have a sheet over herself), talking to Patrick, whom she was going to marry, and with whom she had just—

“Your parents were in here just now,” Patrick said. His grin widened. “You were sleeping like a baby.”

“What?” It emerged from her mouth like a half-strangled shriek.

The finger which Patrick had been rubbing over her lip began to wander down her neck. “Your mother didn’t see us. Your father did, though. He practically threw your mother back out into the hallway. Apparently she thinks you’ve eloped, because she was looking for a note.” His finger wandered below the sheet.

Sophie fastened her eyes on Patrick’s face, trying to ignore all nonverbal communications. “Are you saying that my father
saw
you and said nothing?”

Patrick nodded.

“But why?” Sophie’s eyes were as round as robin’s eggs. “Why on earth wouldn’t he challenge you, or stop and call me a doxy, or do something?”

“A doxy?” Patrick looked at her quizzically. “Where did you get that outmoded term, my love?”

Sophie blushed. “It’s … that’s what my mother calls some women.”

“Humph.” Patrick rolled one of his legs over on top of Sophie’s. She turned even pinker. “I think he was giving me a chance to get out of here,” Patrick said.

“Oh!” Sophie gasped. The blood was rushing to her head.

Patrick shifted his weight and suddenly every nerve in her body was clamoring. He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers, but at that moment there was a scraping noise and the top of the ladder bobbed, fell back against the house once, then silently swung away into the air.

“Alas,” Patrick murmured against Sophie’s lips. “Discovery appears to be imminent.”

Sophie didn’t reply. Her hands were discovering the smooth planes of Patrick’s back as his mouth plunged and took, sending a stroking heat down all her trembling limbs.

Reluctantly Patrick pulled away and sat up, running his hands through his hair. “My love, I had better be off.” He looked down at Sophie, who lay quietly. Slowly he reached out and rubbed her cheek with the back of his hand.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said huskily.

A smile flickered on Sophie’s lips. “When I refused to marry you, last month, you looked profoundly relieved.”

“Really?” Patrick laughed. “I felt rather piqued, if the truth be known.”

“Oh.” Sophie nodded. That explained why Patrick had come up the ladder instead of Braddon. She didn’t quite like the idea of her future being decided due to a childish rivalry between two men, but she felt too happy at the moment to worry about it.

“So why did you reject me?” Patrick asked.

A shadow passed Sophie’s eyes. “It wasn’t
you
, my lord.” A blush mounted in her cheeks. “I was quite—well,” she shifted direction quickly, “I just wasn’t thinking about the way the world is. I thought … I don’t know what I thought.” She started once again. “I was being very cowardly, I realize that.”

Patrick was pulling on his breeches and shirt, but he turned and looked at Sophie in surprise. Cowardly? Just as he opened his mouth, she asked a question.

“How are you going to leave? I think the ladder is gone.”

“Down the front stairs, naturally.” Patrick’s face took on a momentary hauteur lent to him by generations of aristocratic ancestors. “I should be very surprised if your butler questioned my presence in the house.”

“Where do you suppose my parents went?”

“I expect your father will direct the coachman to drive out the post road for a time, then order the horses home again.” Patrick’s voice was muffled for a moment as he cast the great cloak over his head. “You should expect a good deal of conversation in the morning, sweetheart. I think your mother will be particularly annoyed with your father.”

“She’s frequently annoyed with him,” Sophie observed.

Patrick cast her an inquiring glance.

“He sleeps with too many women,” she obligingly explained.

Patrick sat down on the edge of the bed, fully swathed in Braddon’s theatrical cloak once again.

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes heavy lidded. “My mama is very irritable about the whole subject of mistresses. But you needn’t worry; I shall be accommodating.”

Patrick smiled a bit tightly. “I hope you won’t have anything to accommodate.”

Sophie was clearly drifting off to sleep again. “It’s quite all right, Patrick. I am not the sort of woman who will make a fuss. Now that I’m going to marry you, I won’t whimper about it.” Her eyes closed.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed as he watched Sophie’s face relax into dreams. It was not without a frisson of shock that he realized her complete lack of belief in his ability to stay away from other women. As he watched she turned a bit, nestling her face against her hand.

Patrick ran his hand down the silky mess of Sophie’s curls, spread out against the sheets. She must have bled when he took her virginity, this future wife of his, but she hadn’t said a word. Not a coward, then. But she had no faith in him. Why? What could she have heard about him? Stories, perhaps, about his behavior before his father sent him abroad. But Patrick couldn’t think of anything remarkable, other than the normal pranks of lustful men in their twenties. And yet, since Sophie had agreed to marry Braddon, whose reputation was not the best, a truly egregious tale must be circulating about himself. No. He’d forgotten about Braddon’s title. Sophie had wanted to be a countess. Well, now she would be a duchess.

Patrick’s jaw tightened. Whatever reluctance she’d had to marry him before, Sophie York didn’t have a choice anymore. She was
his
. He stood up, then leaned over her once more, almost compulsively running a hand down the lovely curves of her relaxed body. God, he’d better get out of here or he’d lose his head again.

Patrick stood, his cape swirling from his shoulders. With the silent stealth of a jungle animal he walked over to Sophie’s dressing table and swiftly pocketed the strand of matched pearls she had worn earlier in the evening. Then he left the room, shutting the door silently behind him. He walked down the stairs slowly, making no effort to hide the firm sound of his feet striking the marble risers.

Carroll had left Philippe in the front hall with instructions to await the master and mistress’s return from a ball. The footman looked up in confusion as a swell, dressed in a black cape, walked composedly down the stairs. His mouth fell open, but Carroll’s excellent training snapped Philippe to attention. He sprang to the door and held it open, bowing his head.

Patrick threw him an amused glance as he strolled through the doorway. Then he paused.

“I wasn’t here,” he said gently.

Philippe nodded. Not for nothing was he born in France.

“It is possible that a thief has been in the house, however,” Patrick added.

Philippe’s eyes shifted desperately to the side. He wished Carroll were there.

“A thief, sir?”

“Unfortunately,” Patrick murmured. “There is a thief in London who brings a ladder, climbs into open windows, and steals whatever jewels have been left out on a dressing table. It is entirely possible that the thief is on the prowl tonight.”

Philippe felt a chill of alarm down his spine. What was he supposed to do next? The tall aristocrat’s eyes were making his head whirl.

“Perhaps we should summon a runner,” he said with a gulp.

He was rewarded by a cool smile. “That would undoubtedly be wise.” Patrick jauntily walked down the outside stairs. Even as Philippe watched, he vaulted into a carriage waiting at the corner. Only then did Philippe dare look at the banknote in his hand.

“Gorm!” Philippe had been handed more money than he could make in three years … enough to get his little sister out of her position as a scullery maid, which she hated so much, and into an apprenticeship with a mantua maker. A flood of gratitude washed his soul.

Then he turned quickly, running back toward the servants’ quarters. He’d just remembered hearing a rumor about a thief who entered houses by a ladder, stealing jewels so quietly that sleeping inhabitants heard not a whisper.

And thus it was that when an extremely disgruntled marchioness and her husband returned to their house, an hour or so later, they disembarked from their carriage to find all the lights burning, and a small circle of Bow Street runners standing about awkwardly.

Eloise stopped in utter confusion. There was her daughter, hastily dressed and with her hair tied back with a simple ribbon. Obviously Sophie was not belting down the post road toward Gretna Greene. Eloise was propelled into the room by her husband’s strong hand in the middle of her back.

“What seems to be the problem here?” The marquis’s voice was sharp and the little group swung about instantly.

The head runner’s eyes brightened. Here was the man of the house to talk to.

“It’s like this, milord,” Grenable said importantly. “There’s been a robbery here.”

“A robbery?”

“Yes, sir. Your daughter’s lost a valuable pearl necklace—”

“Pearls?”

Grenable cast a look at the mistress of the house. She seemed a bit dazed.

“Yes, milady, a string of pearls has been found to be missing.” Grenable turned back to the marquis. “There’s been a few thefts of this sort in the past, milord. We found ladder marks under the young lady’s window, and the mess of quite a number of footprints. So my guess is that we’re talking about a gang here. Likely they came along and set up a ladder, and one of ‘em nipped up the ladder as silent as you please, and the young lady has admitted that her pearls were lying right on the dressing table in her room, just asking to be picked up, begging your pardon.” He bobbed his head at Sophie, who nodded confusedly.

She was only beginning to understand the situation. The process wasn’t helped by the jolting surprises of the past hour: waking to find herself alone in the bed, roused by Simone’s hysterical comments. It seemed that her mama’s maid had somehow figured out that the house had been robbed, or was it one of the footmen? No one seemed to be too clear. At any rate, the throbbing pain between her thighs kept stealing her attention away from the loss of her pearl necklace. And Patrick had left her without a word, without even saying good-bye, that she could remember.

Grenable’s unwelcome voice intervened again. He was a rather squat, oily man with a scrawny beard. “I shall need to question the young lady quite closely,” he was saying. “It is not yet clear to me exactly why Lady Sophie opened her window last night, given that her maid insists that she closed the window quite securely before going to her own room.”

Sophie gulped and looked up. Her mama was frowning at her, and even her father was looking at her rather sharply. She felt as if she were acting in a play without having learned the lines.

“I simply wanted some night air,” she said, her voice wavering. And then, when she spied a gleam of approval in her father’s eyes, she burst into tears. She cried because Patrick hadn’t said good-bye, and because she was bewildered by her thoughtless submission to his seduction.

And thus Grenable’s underlings were treated to the sight of his discomfort, having driven a gently born young lady to tears.

Her father was beside her in an instant; Eloise was a little slower, given her surprise at the sight of Sophie’s tears. In her recollection, she hadn’t seen her daughter cry since she was six or seven. Yet there she was, choking back sobs—and over the loss of a pearl necklace!

“It’s shock,” George said soothingly, meeting his wife’s bewildered eyes. “Very frightening, having a marauding criminal tiptoeing around one’s room during the night.”

Eloise turned and gave Grenable a fierce look. He involuntarily fell back a step. “I fail to see what information my daughter might give you that could possibly aid you in your attempt to apprehend the criminal who broke into our house tonight,” she said bitingly. “I suggest you begin searching the streets without delay.”

Grenable swallowed. Of course the marchioness was right. The open window had just seemed a bit havey-cavey to him. He would do better to go back to Bow Street and send a description of the pearl necklace out to the best-known fencers. He rubbed his hands together, bowing very low as the marchioness swept her daughter from the room.

“I agree, I agree,” he said, turning to the marquis as the door closed behind Eloise and Sophie. “There is nothing more for me here. I must warn you, milord, that the possibility of recovering the young lady’s necklace is very slim.”

The marquis looked remarkably calm as he shook Grenable’s hand. “Do your best, man, do your best. I’m not one of those who criticize the runners. From what I’ve seen, you’re good men, the finest. Always chasing after malefactors.”

“Yes,” Grenable said a bit uncertainly. “We certainly do our best.” Somehow he found himself out the front door and heading back to Bow Street before he thought twice.

Given that one of his operating rules was never to show indecision in front of his men, Grenable decided to dismiss the queerness of the marquis’s behavior. After all, what was a string of pearls to such a man, anyway? Grenable should just bless his lucky stars that this particular peer wouldn’t kick up a row if the bloody pearls couldn’t be traced. The very thought cheered him up.

The family butler, Carroll, was even more cheerful when he found that the master seemed to have no intention of turning him off as a result of his slanderous suggestion that Lady Sophie had eloped.

“Don’t think about it twice, Carroll,” George said expansively. “It was a viable conclusion. I thought it m’self. But there, we told you Lady Sophie was safe in her bed, didn’t we? Too bad we didn’t know about the thief when her mother and I left for the ball. But the important thing is that Lady Sophie was right and snug in bed. Well, good night, Carroll.” And off went the marquis, rubbing his hands together.