Shady Lady (21 page)

Maybe Waldo knew her better than she knew herself. Maybe she
had
wanted revenge on John. Waldo had been harsh, and maybe she deserved it.

She found a set of tiny bruises marching across her chest. She supposed she got those from the silver buttons on his coat. And silver was supposed to be lucky? She scanned the top of the dressing table for the silver shilling she’d picked up in the courtyard. Having found it, she threw it with all her might into the empty grate, where it bounced and rattled before sinking into the cinders.

So much for luck.

She stared at her reflection again, at a shadow on her left cheek, and groaned in mortification. If it turned black and blue, she didn’t know how she’d explain it away. Was it a shadow or was it a bruise? She couldn’t see clearly in this light.

She snatched up her hand mirror—silver again—and crossed to the mantelpiece, where a candle was burning. The light shone full on her face. It wasn’t a bruise. It was only a shadow. She angled the mirror to get a better look, but it wasn’t her own face that was reflected back at her. It was Waldo’s.

Her hand trembled. Her throat closed. For one insane moment, she thought she’d conjured him out of thin air. She hadn’t heard the door open. How had he got here? But the voice that spoke to her wasn’t an illusion.

“I couldn’t leave things as they were. I came to apologize.”

Those tears were clogging her throat again, and that made her cross—cross and weak and trembly. She put the hand mirror on the mantel and turned to face him. He was standing by the door that gave onto the servants’ staircase. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his dark hair looked damp and windblown. He looked as vulnerable as she felt.

Waldo didn’t feel vulnerable so much as staggered. It wasn’t her beauty that struck him or the fact that she was wearing a transparent nightgown, unbuttoned to the waist, which revealed far more than he wanted to see when he had something serious on his mind that had to be said. What staggered him was the awful realization that he might, against all reason, possibly be seriously obsessed with this woman, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I deserved it.”

He made a motion with one hand. “I didn’t mean half of what I said.”

That brought a fleeting smile to her lips. “Which half
did
you mean?”

He didn’t smile. “I can’t remember what I said, but if it hurt you, I didn’t mean it.”

She felt the prickle of tears. He shouldn’t be apologizing. The fault was hers. She hadn’t made him understand. She took a step toward him, then another. When she was close enough to touch him, she halted. “I didn’t mean to hurt you either.” She stopped to swallow. “But I mean what I said. I’ve been alone too long. There’s no joy in my life. I thought you could teach me how to find joy again.”

His fingers stroked her cheek; emotion darkened his eyes. “I thought you could do the same for me.”

Suddenly, something that had seemed so hard was easy. She wasn’t an innocent young girl. She knew what she was doing and what to expect. With a long, sighing breath, she twined her arms around his neck and lifted her face to his. “Don’t talk. Just kiss me.”

As his lips brushed hers, heat flamed within her, making her ache for more. It had been so long, so long. . . . She wanted joy, but she wanted more. Just for a little while, she wanted to forget all the troubles that plagued her. She wanted the oblivion only Waldo could give. Her hands slid to his shoulders and drew him closer.

He laced his fingers behind her head, holding her steady as his lips sank into hers. When her body yielded to the pressure of his, her softness melting against him, he drew her to the bed.

Eyes on hers, he divested her of her gown and tossed it to the floor, then quickly shed his own garments. His hands trembled as they skimmed over her. She was soft and supple, her skin as smooth as silk. There was no seduction. She gave him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. She was eager, more than eager, and that made him smile.

“Easy,” he said. “Easy. We have all night.”

He tried to soothe her with softly murmured words and gentle caresses. It didn’t help. In fact, it did the opposite. She was turning to fire in his arms, racing for the end when they’d hardly begun.

This wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t looking for the ease a woman’s body could give him. He could find that with any woman. He wanted Jo. He wanted what was in her mind and heart. He wanted to cherish and savor, and be intimate with her in every sense of the word.

She could feel his heart thundering against her hand, could hear him murmuring that she was going too fast for him. He was going to stop, and that was the last thing she wanted. She couldn’t understand it. He had hardly touched her, yet she was hovering on the edge. In another moment she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

Holding his face with both hands, she kissed him again and again, each kiss more abandoned than the last. He was searching for his control when her hand slipped between their bodies and closed around his sex. For one moment more, he held her off, but he’d left it too late. Her needs overwhelmed him, her passion found an answering beat in his own body.

“Is this what you want, Jo?” he asked hoarsely.

His hands and mouth were desperate to learn all her secrets. She was wild and sweet and wet with wanting him. He couldn’t remember wanting this much, needing this much. He rose above her and positioned her for his possession. Her eyes were dark and unfocused, her hair a fiery halo around her shoulders. With head thrown back, he drove into her, fusing their bodies into one.

Jo sucked in a breath as pain streaked through her. By degrees it subsided to a dull ache. She hadn’t expected this. It had been so long since a man had made love to her.

He went perfectly still, watching emotions chase themselves across her face. On a shaken laugh, he got out, “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind? I don’t know if I can stop.”

In answer, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, locking him to her. There was no answering smile on her lips. “If you stop now, I’ll kill you.”

His smile gradually died. “I’ll never stop,” he said, “so you’d better make up your mind to it.”

His words hardly registered. He moved, raising on his arms to make his penetration as deep as he could make it. Her body arched and trembled beneath his. Then coherent thought disintegrated as they streaked toward a mindless release.

It took her a long time to get her breath back. Now that the madness was over, she didn’t know where to look or what to say. Her behavior was completely out of character. She’d never felt that kind of desperation. With John, making love had been pleasant. With Waldo, she’d been wild and free. Now she felt awkward. What on earth was she going to say to him?

They were still on the bed, but covered now by the quilt, and he was propped on one elbow, gazing down at her. What did he see? What was he looking for? She chanced a quick look up at him, then looked away. There was a guarded expression in his eyes, and he was chewing on his bottom lip. One of them had to say something before the silence became deafening, and it seemed that someone had to be her.

“You can take that look off your face, Waldo,” she said lightly. “I’m not expecting a declaration of love.”

Something flickered at the back of his eyes, but he said in his easy way, “Well, that’s one problem I won’t have to worry about.”

Disappointment shimmered through her, but she brought it quickly under control. She had to remember that Waldo did this kind of thing all the time. She was only one among many, and a novice at that. Did all men crave variety?

She looked at him and looked away.

“What?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Jo.” He tipped up her chin with his index finger. “Tell me!”

She said slowly, “I was thinking about Eric’s mother—you know, Sarah Foley, wondering what she was like. I don’t suppose you happened to find out . . .”

Her voice trailed to a halt when he abruptly threw back the quilt and got up. He dressed with quick, efficient movements, then turned to look at her. His face was pale and his eyes were vivid with anger. She strained back against the pillows when he put one hand on the bedpost and leaned over her.

There was nothing easy about his voice now. “To answer your question. Yes, I found out about Sarah Foley. She was a simple, kindhearted girl and a loving mother. But we both knew this already, didn’t we, Jo, because Eric is a happy, normal little boy. To answer the question you didn’t ask, no, I didn’t happen to find out whether your husband kept up his affair with her after he was married to you. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t interested. He’s dead, Jo. So is Sarah Foley. Accept it. And
never
make me a party to your revenge again.”

She said quietly, “That is so unjust. Revenge had nothing to do with it. I had a stray thought about Eric’s mother, all right?”

But it wasn’t all right. His mouth twisted, and with a grunt of derision, he left her.

C
hapter
21

I
t was the morning after Cecy’s presentation, a time when everyone was usually up and doing, but today Jo was the only one to come down for breakfast. Evidently, no one was expected, for there was very little set out on the sideboard. She helped herself to toast and scrambled eggs and washed it down with tepid coffee.

The children were up. She could hear their shrieks through the open window. Cup in hand, she wandered over and looked out. They were trying to play cricket with only one bowler-cum-fielder and two batsmen. They were shrieking because Miss Tanner, the girls’ nursemaid, who was acting as umpire, had declared that the batters were both out!

She turned when she heard the door opening. Waldo paused for a moment on the threshold. She could see at once that there was a change in him. He wasn’t cold or aloof, but there wasn’t the familiarity she had come to expect. His eyes were flat, his smile lacked warmth, his greeting was perfunctory.

There was a change in her as well. She felt awkward and tongue-tied and not only because last night she’d behaved with all the finesse of a cat in heat. She couldn’t understand how everything could have gone so wrong. All he helped himself to was toast and marmalade and a cup of coffee. When he sat down at the table, he indicated a chair, inviting her to be seated. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

She refilled her coffee cup first, then took the chair he indicated. “I want to talk to you as well.”

“I see your sprained ankle has healed?”

She almost took exception to his cynical smile, but she wasn’t up to bickering, so she merely nodded. “Do you want to begin or shall I?”

He let out a weary sigh. “If it’s about last night—”

“It isn’t about last night. In fact, I think it would be better if we pretended that last night never happened. I’ve already erased it from my memory and I hope you’ll do the same.”

“Consider it done.”

He took a sip of coffee as though he’d done no more than agree to post a letter for her. A tiny shard of glass lodged in her heart.

“Is that all?”

“No,” she said. “I want to talk to you about Eric.” She took a moment to frame her words. “It’s about the letter,” she said finally, “the one from the attorney to Eric’s mother. Why did Mrs. Foley wait so long before she passed it on to me? Why now? Why not when it came into her possession, which I presume was when Eric’s mother died?”

“As I understand, she assumed that she would have control of the money that had been settled on her daughter. When she realized her mistake, she no longer wanted the boy.”

Bitterness welled up in her. “Is that all Eric meant to her—money?”

“Apparently.” He was crumbling a piece of dried toast between his fingers, but he was watching her. “But that’s not why she sent you the letter.”

“No. I’ve thought about that. I think she blames me for coming between John and her daughter.” She stopped, afraid to go on, afraid to revive their quarrel, but there were so many questions she wanted answered.

He said abruptly, “Look, it’s not my place to divulge all the salacious details of your husband’s past. If you want to know more about Sarah Foley, ask the vicar. Anything I know, I got from him.”

“The vicar! Is there anyone in Stratford who didn’t know about Sarah Foley, apart from me?”

“I have no idea. Is that all?”

It would have given her great pleasure to shock the indifferent expression from his face, but nothing came to mind, so she said instead, “No, we still have to talk about Eric.”

“I see. Now that you know whose son he is, you no longer want him. Well, I tried to dissuade you from the very beginning. I knew it was a mistake to allow you to become too attached to him. But nothing has changed. He’ll go to a good school. In the holidays, he’ll go to my sister Maude or he’ll come here.”

“Nothing has changed?” She was as derisive as he. “
Everything
has changed. He’s John’s son. I have more claim to him than you.”

“You want Eric?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Jo.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through. Can you tell me, honestly, that knowing who he is won’t make a difference? You have so much bitterness fermenting inside you, some of it is bound to spill over.” His mouth twisted. “As I should know. I won’t let you make Eric a victim in this war between you and a ghost.”

She could feel her hands clenching into fists, and she quickly linked her fingers so she wouldn’t betray herself. Pride kept her eyes dry and her voice level. “I have never understood why you want to be Eric’s guardian. A little boy doesn’t fit into your life. You’ll only see him in school holidays.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me on more than one occasion. However, as I remember, the role was foisted upon me by
you
. One thing you should know about me, Jo—when I take something on, I see it through. Which brings me to something else I agreed to take on for you—finding out what has happened to your friend Chloë.”

She didn’t want to leave things like this. She wanted to defend her character, show him how wrong he was in all his assumptions. She wasn’t at war with a ghost. Yes, John had hurt her, but bitterness wasn’t fermenting inside her. Last night she’d given vent to her feelings, and some of the poison had drained away. In time, she would get over it. That’s all she needed, a little time.

Those flat, hard eyes that stared at her indifferently did not encourage her to explain herself. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s talk about Chloë.”

He had set things up in a corner of the library—a long table set out with pens, paper, and ink pot down one side, and on the other, the back copies of the
Journal
and the circulation lists that Mac Nevin had sent on. Ruggles was there, and he got up from the table when he caught sight of her.

“Mrs. Chesney,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

She was pleased to see him as well, not only because he was a pleasant, well-mannered gentleman, but because she and Waldo would have to stop sniping at each other when company was present.

She bobbed him a curtsy. “Mr. McNab,” she said. “Is that the list of the
Journal
’s London subscribers you have in your hand?”

“It is, and I’ve found something.” He looked at Waldo. “Morden’s name is here, but not his title: Mr. Morden, Wattier’s Club, Bolton Street.”

Jo said, “Viscount Morden?”

“The same,” said Waldo. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”

Both men were smiling. Jo said, “You think . . .” She paused as her thoughts took shape. “You think that Morden was behind the attack on me, that he read the piece I’d written for Chloë and decided that I was a threat to him?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” said Waldo. “I think that he knows Chloë is Lady Tellall and that you are her publisher as well as her closest friend. He must think that you know more than you do. No, hear me out. At Cecy’s presentation yesterday, Morden made a point of talking to me. He’d read the piece you’d written in the
Journal
, though, of course, he pretended that he’d got the information secondhand.”

“Well, of course,” said Ruggles. “He’d hardly admit to subscribing to a—” He observed Jo’s expression and hastily amended what he’d been about to say. “Eh . . . a . . . provincial paper.”

“Not up to the
Times
, I suppose?” she said acidly. She looked at Waldo. “Go on.”

“To cut a long story short, he said that he hoped that the report of Lady Webberley taking the ferry to France was true, but I got the distinct impression he was lying. I think he hopes the story is false. I think he knows where Chloë is, you see.”

Hope leapt to her throat. “He knows where she is hiding?”

He answered gently, “No, Jo. I’m sorry. What I should have said was that he knows where Chloë’s body is hidden, because he put it there.”

She waited for the shock of his words to spread through her, but all that she felt was a dull ache. She’d already begun to accept that they were never going to find Chloë alive.

She said, “What do you mean—he hopes the report is false? He must
know
it’s false if he killed Chloë.”

“I think you’ve planted a doubt in his mind.”

“A doubt?”

“I think he’s beginning to wonder whether he killed Chloë after all.”

“Supposing I accept what you say—and I’m not convinced yet—where is all this leading?”

Waldo smiled. “We’re going to panic him into leading us to Chloë’s final resting place.”

When she shook her head, Ruggles added, “It’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose?”

She looked at the table with everything neatly set out on it. “Tell me what you want me to do,” she said.

Her job was to write the copy for Lady Tellall’s next column. She had more than enough to go on with Cecy’s presentation and the snippets of gossip Lady Fredericka had passed on. The real point of the exercise, however, was to insert something about Chloë that would panic her killer into believing that she might be alive and the only way to verify it would be to check on where he’d hidden her body.

That was supposing he read the next issue of the
Journal
.

The word
far-fetched
kept drumming in her brain, but the certain knowledge that her coconspirators were anything but amateurs gave her some grounds for hoping that they knew what they were doing.

She looked over at Ruggles. His job was to scour the
Journal
for every reference to Viscount Morden or anything that struck an odd note. They’d been working for hours. Waldo, meantime, had taken off with Harper for Brinsley Hall to scout the area, he said, for likely places for hiding a body. He was due back the following evening.

The thought of Chloë lying unmourned in unhallowed ground made her blood boil.

Ruggles looked up and caught her eye. “I’m almost finished.”

“Me too.” There was a fresh pot of coffee on the table, so she reached over and topped up their cups. “This is supposed to sharpen your wits,” she said, “so drink up.”

He let out a sigh. “I need something. I’m not making much sense of this.”

“What is it?”

“A reference to the viscount’s birthday last year. Only Chloë got it wrong. She says his birthday was in December. She makes the correction a few weeks later.
Many apologies to Viscount Morden and his family
, etc., etc. Morden wasn’t born in December. He was born in June.”

He passed the relevant pages to Jo. She read them, then shrugged. “I can’t see that this makes much difference. It’s the kind of slip anyone could make. It doesn’t mean that he was born out of wedlock. Now, that
would
mean something. But everyone knows that his parents were married for years before he came along.”

“All the same, it’s odd and worth a closer look.”

She turned slightly in her chair to get a better look at him. She knew that he and Waldo were roughly the same age, but Ruggles’s red hair and freckles made him look boyish. Yet he was a seasoned soldier, having served with Waldo all through the Spanish Campaign. It was rumored that they’d been some sort of spies. She might have believed it of Waldo. He was turning out to be far more complex than she had at first realized. But she couldn’t see Ruggles as a spy. He looked so pleasant and trustworthy.

He was watching her too. “What is it?” he asked.

She smiled sheepishly, as though she’d been caught out in a white lie. After a moment’s hesitation, she framed her question to be as inoffensive as possible. “What was it like in Spain? For you and Waldo, I mean? I know you worked for British Intelligence or something. . . .”

“Or something,” he agreed, a smile in his eyes.

This was getting her nowhere, so she asked bluntly, “What exactly did you do?”

He stifled a yawn. “It was all pretty boring,” he said, “and not at all as most people imagine. We decoded messages, questioned witnesses, and did much the same as we are doing here. I suppose you would call it police work.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m not disappointed, because I don’t believe a word you’ve said.” She smiled to soften her words.

His eyes flared. “It’s all true.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not the whole truth. Keep your secrets, Mr. McNab. I had no business quizzing you like that. What I should have done was thank you for helping out like this. So thank you, and I mean that sincerely.”

Faint color tinted his cheeks. “My pleasure, ma’am. Nothing at all. No need to . . . that is . . .”

She rescued him by saying, “Shall we get back to work?” When he nodded, she went on. “I’ve written something out that I think will suit our purpose, but I’d like your opinion.”

After picking up one of the sheets of paper she’d been working on, she read,
“The rampant speculation about Lady Webberley is over. She writes from Paris that she has no plans to return to London in the near future, not until after her memoirs are published. Yes, dear reader, her ladyship has sold her memoirs to a prestigious London publisher, who is bringing them out in August. Be prepared for scandals that will rock both court and government circles. And remember, you heard it first from Lady Tellall.”

She looked up at him. “What do you think?”

“If that doesn’t panic Morden, nothing will.”

“Won’t he suspect a trap?”

“Possibly. But even if he does, he’ll want to verify it, and he can only do that by going back to the scene of the crime.”

“So, what do we do next?”

“We send your notes by express to the
Journal
so that Morden can read them in the next edition of the paper.”

“It won’t arrive in London for at least a week.”

“Then, hopefully, all hell will break loose.”

Waldo and Harper arrived at Henley as dusk was falling. After tipping the postboys for getting them there in record time, they took rooms at the Swan and repaired to the taproom, where they hoped to meet some of the locals and pump them for information. Unfortunately, it was a quiet night, and the few locals who came in regarded them with suspicion. Their landlord, however, proved to be extremely helpful after he observed that Waldo was a man of expensive tastes with the money to indulge them. Only the best rooms would do for Waldo, only the best dinner and the most expensive brandy the inn had to offer.