Sin (20 page)

He was looking to see who had been standing outside the door. She wanted to know, but the red book sat in front of her. Tempting. Why shouldn’t she look? Shaking, she picked it up. The front cover fell open, a folded paper drifted out to the floor. She picked it up and smoothed it flat on top of the journal, revealing a list scrawled on the page in Lydia’s flamboyant handwriting. Her heart hammered.

Brude—plagarism £2000 pd.

Wembly—affair Caroline £10000

Chartrand & Lady C—first Lady C £10000

Montberry—male lovers £2000. Won’t pay!!!

Yardley—heir £5000 pd. More?

R Rose—bastard £10000

Her hands shook. She pressed her thumbnail into the page beneath the last name.

Trent—incest, death £10000

M
arcus waited with impatience as the footman bowed and closed the balcony doors behind him. Though the man’s expression had been impassive, he’d obviously assumed he had been leading guests outside for a tryst.

This balcony was mostly sheltered by the one above and overlooked the extensive grounds behind Abbersley. He frowned as rain blew at him and wet his face and hair, as the wind caught Venetia’s skirts and tossed her curls. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Lydia’s manuscript was rolled beneath his arm but Venetia clutched Lydia’s book.

“I needed to ask you something. In private.” She opened the book and drew out a folded piece of paper. She turned her back to protect it from the rain and wind.

“What is that?” he demanded.

“Lydia was blackmailing you.” She pushed wild curls back from her face. “You told me you wanted to stop Lydia because of me. It was nothing to do with me. You could have trusted me, Marcus.”

“You looked at the book?” he snapped. “After I asked you not to?”

She frowned, her eyes pained. “I only looked at this list, Marcus.”

Damnation, why was he yelling at her? Suddenly, he needed her to understand. It mattered that Vee understood. “I couldn’t tell you because those secrets aren’t mine to reveal.”

“What does it mean—incest?” She spoke quietly, but even above the wind and the rain, he heard.

“You don’t know?”

“I do…I mean…was it you…you didn’t—?”

Her words stunned him as though a lightning bolt had seared him on the spot. “Jesus bloody Christ, you think I did it? You think I’m capable of that?” He remembered the pain that lanced his skull when Min had hit him with the vase, but the agony of her condemning expression had been worse. But he couldn’t betray Min by revealing the truth to Venetia. He would have to give her a lie—but what lie could he give that wasn’t wretched, revolting?

He strode away from her, out to icy rain and buffeting winds. She followed. Confusion showed on her face. She caught his arm. “It wouldn’t have been your fault. You would have been young…a child.”

He knew she was becoming soaked, even knowing she was being drenched, he couldn’t move. “I wasn’t the victim, love.”

“Your sister?”

He tipped his head back. Here they weren’t beneath the overhanging balcony and he could look up at the black thunderheads. He couldn’t tell her. These were Min’s secrets and he had no right to share them with anyone. The sudden memory speared him. Of the day he’d confronted his father, praying he could act like a man, yet giving in to one wretched tear. “No, not Min.”

He turned abruptly. “Give me the book, Vee.”

She hugged it to her chest. “But my secrets are in it, too. I found it.”

Was he going to have to rip it from her hands—?

Movement. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eyes. Someone on the balcony above?

He craned his neck to see. The wind dropped for a moment, and he heard it. The light clang of metal. For one crucial moment, he froze. Overhead was an urn and the base jutted over the edge of the balcony. Too far—

He grabbed Venetia’s arm and hauled her against him as he jerked back. His momentum flung him down with her on top. A dark shape fell in that instant, struck with an explosion against the terrace flags. Stone shattered. Dirt sprayed. Shards flew and he clutched Venetia’s head against his chest, praying nothing hit her. Something hard struck his leg—a dull pain through his thick leather boots.

Silence reigned except for the swishing sound of rain and wind. Then Venetia turned her face away from his chest, sucked in a deep breath.

“Are you hurt?” He asked it softly, to reveal nothing to their assailant.

“No,” she breathed. “What in hell was that?” She tried to twist on top of him to see.

Despite the need for quiet, he found himself laughing beneath his breath—the way he’d heard some men did when facing death. But his humor came from relief. “Sweeting, only you could ask that.”

He could have lost her. If he hadn’t looked up—

His chest ached. He rolled her off him as gently as he could. His right calf ached, only bruised. Levering up to a sitting position, he caught her wrist. “Wait. He might still be there.”

“You saw someone? Someone pushed this?”

He put his arm around her, protecting her. Using his body as a shield, he helped her to a crouch, then bent over, he led her to the shut doors. “I think so. Someone who knows we have Lydia’s book.”

“But why try to crush us?” Venetia crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She still trembled, even here, in Marcus’ warm and secure bedchamber, comfortable in dry clothes.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed. He reached out to her. “That I can’t answer. Possibly to keep us from reading his or her secrets. Or to injure both of us and steal the book. Probably the killer saw the opportunity and took it. Or he might have felt if he killed me—”

She walked into his embrace, between his spread thighs. He pulled her close and she locked her arms around his neck. Her quim and skirts cradled the ridge of his cock. A thick bulge, but not hard. His powerful arms slid around her back, pulling her to him. Silk and buttons pressed into her cheek.

She felt a soft pressure against the top of her head—his lips.

She shivered. What chance would she have had, alone, against someone capable of strangling a woman to death?

“The urn was full of dirt and flowers,” Marcus said, as he stroked her hair. “Very heavy.”

She remembered how impressed he’d been when she insisted on racing right up to the balcony. They’d done it cautiously, but there had been no sign of the culprit. Gouges on the balustrade post showed that the urn had been pushed. It was definitely no accident.

Shock had given her bravery. And so much had happened after the attack. A footman running to their aid. Then that dash upstairs. The reactions of their hosts. Fury from Lord Chartrand who blamed the gypsies. Lady Chartrand had sternly insisted it must have been an accident. They’d seen no other guests.

Reality set in now. In a shaky voice, Venetia apologized, “I’m so sorry—now your secrets are not safe. The killer must have heard….” How would she feel in his place? Furious. He must despise her! She’d dragged him to a dangerous place. Forced a confrontation.

She hadn’t thought. She’d been so hurt that he hadn’t trusted her. So she’d let her passionate side take over—her
artistic
side—and exposed his secrets.

Guiltily, she broke out of his hug. She bit her lip as she faced Marcus, as she took in the breathtaking beauty of his austere face. With his mouth set, his eyes narrowed, he withdrew Lydia’s book from his pocket. He weighed it in his hand. “Does this really contain secrets worth killing for?”

She watched as he flipped through. “Meticulous woman,” he remarked, “Lydia kept her blackmailing notes in alphabetical order.”

With one swift pass of his hand, he ripped a group of pages from the book. These he fed into the fire. They curled, blackened, flared into flame.

She realized he had just destroyed the secrets Lydia had blackmailed him over.

“I will have to tell the magistrate that she blackmailed me,” he said, “but I don’t need to hurt anyone else. Nor will I tell him about you, Vee. Do you want me to destroy Rodesson’s—or do you want to read them first?”

Did she want to read her father’s secrets? She shook her head, hesitantly. Then again, with firm confidence. “No, I don’t want to know!”

Tears blurred her view of those dangerous secrets turning to ash. “We’re safe.”

Marcus gave a rueful smile. “Someone did push an urn at us.” He paced in front of the fire. “Whoever did it might try again—someone believes we know his secrets. We have to leave here, Vee.”

“But will Lydia’s killer be brought to justice if we leave?” Did that matter so much? As much as being safe and alive? But could they allow a murderer to go free?

“Your life is far more important to me, Vee.”

Her heart tumbled in her chest and she tried to quell the sudden surge of girlish delight. He was a protective man—worrying about her life was not a declaration of love. She must be sensible. She opened Lydia’s book, but could not focus on the words on the page. She was safe. They would return to London. She would probably never see him again.

Marcus pulled on the bell cord. Within moments, Rutledge answered Marcus’ summons, but even earls could not command the impossible to happen.

Solemnly, Rutledge shook his head. “You cannot travel on the roads, my lord. They are completely impassible and the storm is too fierce. No doubt it was the strong winds that dislodged that urn and caused that regrettable accident.”

“No doubt,” Marcus snapped.

Rutledge handed Marcus a card, bowed, and left.

Holding Lydia’s book to her chest, Venetia scampered to Marcus’ side. He handed her the card. Lady Chartrand’s writing slanted across the back.
I do hope Vixen attends. This event will make her forget her shock
. And on the front…

An Invitation to a Night of Sin.

Dinner passed quickly for Venetia, though she was too nervous to eat more than a mouthful from each dish. Could she guess the murderer from his or her behavior?

Lady Chartrand looked stunned, wooden. In her journal, Lydia had detailed Chartrand’s drug induced confession about the murder of Catherine de Lisle, the first Lady Chartrand. But was it true?

Rosalyn Rose wore a crimson dress, the skirt slit to her waist so it gave glimpses of her resplendent nether curls. Venetia thought of Lydia’s notes in her journal—
The child she claims is the Duke of Thorndale’s illegitimate son is merely the by-blow of a common footman, but she convinced the doddering duke of his paternity and convinced him to include the boy in his will. One hundred thousand pounds has been promised…

Lady Yardley was masked from hairline to chin in a silver mask decorated with white plumes. She appeared most agitated. Her ladyship’s hand shook as she reached for her wine
. The new Lord Yardley is not the heir to the title…poor Henry could not get his bride with child…he actually paid an impoverished gentleman to impregnate his wife…

What would happen if it became known that Lady Yardley’s son was a bastard? A mother would be willing to kill to protect her son…

The Duke of Montberry fondled Trixie Jones’ breasts between dinner courses, his expression haughty, as though murder was of no concern to him. But Lydia had detailed his love affairs with two young men under his command…

Venetia took a sip of her wine. Did fear prove guilt? Or was a murderer the one who was most calm? All the guests had secrets to hide. All looked shocked when Lord Swansborough pointed out that they were all suspects, as dessert—a plum tart—was cleared away.

“Ridiculous!” cried Lady Chartrand. “It was the gypsies.”

Chartrand’s voice cut in, bluff and booming. “We will deal with the gypsies. They won’t decamp tonight—there’s no where for them to go.” He stood, waving his arms to demand silence. “We will not spoil tonight’s pleasures, for we are all London’s most notorious seekers of sensual delight.”

“Debauched,” corrected Lord Swansborough with a wicked grin. “We are all shamelessly debauched.”

As the party began to leave, Venetia realized she must try at once to discover alibis—at least from the men closest to her.

With the utmost daring, she laid her hand on Lord Swansborough’s sleeve.

“I was shocked to hear of your brush with death, Vixen.” He lifted her hand to his warm, firm lips. “I was attempting to direct the removal of my carriage from the mud. Tonight, my sweet, you need only crook your finger and I am at your command.”

She snatched her hand away. He smirked. This man had not been in Lydia’s book at all. It seemed impossible to believe this dark, seductive man had no secrets.

She turned to Mr. Wembly, who cupped her derriere. “My twelve majestic inches could take away your cares, my dear,” he whispered.

Her lips parted. But no clever question came to mind. She remembered Lydia’s words.
His disparaging comments about Princess Caroline hide the truth—they shared a wild and passionate affair…I found letters while he slept. Stupid man—his lovemaking is a ticket to a hangman’s noose for it was an act of treason.

Arrest for treason and the possibility of execution was a powerful motive….

As Mr. Wembly bowed and left her, Lord Brude leaned close. “Would you wish to twirl like a winking star while I pleasure you with enormous dildoes? Or do you enjoy rope work? I learned some delightful techniques this morning with Miss Rose—an artistic way to arrange knots for erotic pleasure—”

He broke off as Marcus slipped his arm around her waist. Brude hastened to apologize. The instant Venetia saw Marcus’ face she knew why. With narrowed eyes, snarling mouth, he looked ferociously possessive. Marcus drew her aside. “You are not to speak to them alone, Vee.”

“They approached me—to proposition me.” She wanted to rebel against his demand but, in truth, she wanted to sink against him. “I learned that Brude and Rosalyn Rose have alibis—because he was tying her up.”

Marcus stroked her hip possessively. “No one has an alibi, sweetheart. If Brude told you that, he was lying. He had finished his games with Rosalyn by then.”

They were alone in the dining room except for the footman clearing the last of the dishes, snuffing the candles. “It could be any of them. What do we do now?”

“I take you to our room and keep you safe in my bed for the night.” He pressed his hand to her cheek and she let her eyes shut and savored the caress.

“Would you wish to fulfill one of my deepest, most forbidden fantasies tonight?” he asked, his voice a sensuous growl by her ear. “One I’ve never revealed to anyone?”

She snapped her lids open, met his gaze. His turquoise eyes were hot with desire. But she saw the slight flicker of vulnerability in their depths.

“How could I resist that?” she whispered, “Most definitely, yes.”

Marcus watched Venetia roll onto her stomach, her cheek pressed against his rumpled bed. She was naked, her skin a blend of peach-pink and ivory, like summer peaches topped with cream. Shadows enhanced the delectable curve of her spine, the rounded cheeks of her bottom, the hot fold where her derriere met her smooth legs.