Temptations of a Wallflower (26 page)

“When you find out who she is,” she pressed, “and reveal her identity . . . then what?”

He seemed displeased that she continued to speak when it was clear that she wasn't entirely herself. Yet he said, “The scandal will ruin her. Everyone will know who she is, and she'll have to stop writing.”

“She'd lose everything,” Sarah said bleakly. “Friends, family. She might be driven from England.”

“I know,” Jeremy answered darkly. “And I hate to do that to her, when she's done nothing of real harm.”

“She's done
no
harm,” Sarah said vehemently.

“But my father and uncle both think she's contributing to the ethical decay of Society, and they'll stop at nothing to make certain she can pen no more novels.”

“Why do
you
have to go after her?” Sarah asked,
unable to hide the edge of bitterness in her voice. “If you think she's so innocuous.”

“Don't want to,” he growled. “But it's impossible to tell my father no. He'll cut me off if I don't obey,” he added bitterly. “He'll hound me until I do as he wants. He's done so forever.”

“This is a woman's
life
that's at stake, Jeremy!” She couldn't keep the heat from her words. “Surely you can find some means of denying your father. We have my dowry, my inheritance.”

“My father stops at nothing to get his way.”

“Perhaps it's time he learns that he doesn't get everything he wants.”

He glanced down, looking ashamed. “You're right. Yet I have to perform due diligence. I've one more lead to track down, and then I'll tell him that I've done all that I can.”

God, let that lead be a futile one. Let every path he pursued be fruitless. It was the only hope she had that their union could continue. And if he did find out that she was the Lady of Dubious Quality—would he expose her? Would he shame her publicly, and turn away from her? He'd have no choice.

There couldn't have been a more awful situation than this one. “Can't you give it up now?” she urged. “Think of that woman.”

“Just one more possible clue to investigate,” he soothed, without actually soothing her. “And then I'm finished.” He looked at her with concern. “You truly look unwell, love. If I cannot call a physician, let me get you upstairs and resting in bed.”

Her neck rusty, she nodded. She allowed him to help
her up from the bench and guide her gently out of the garden. The whole time, she leaned on him, aware of the irony that the man who supported and helped her so tenderly was the same man who could utterly destroy her.

Inside, they passed Lady Hutton, who exclaimed in shock and dismay when observing Sarah hanging limply on Jeremy's arm.

“She doesn't want a physician,” Jeremy said when his mother insisted on summoning one.

“But what happened, my dear?” Lady Hutton cried.

“It's nothing,” Sarah tried to insist, but her voice was weak. “A dizzy spell. It will pass.”

“Perhaps it's a forerunner of good news,” Lady Hutton said with a little smile, glancing at Sarah's stomach.

Oh, God—Sarah hadn't thought of that. She was fairly certain that she wasn't increasing, but there was always a chance. And if that was the case, then everything was doubly catastrophic. Even without the possibility of a baby, life as she knew it might be over.

She should have known the danger of the game she was playing. Except it wasn't a game. It was her livelihood, her purpose for being. Had she given up her writing before they'd married, not only would it
not
have solved the problem but she would also have suffered excruciatingly.

But soon, she might have to choose. Writing or love. And even that choice might be taken from her.

One night, three weeks after my adventure, I lay abed, too restless to sleep yet too exhausted to get up. The arms of Morpheus were denied me, as were the arms of my highwayman. The ecstasy we'd created fueled my most passionate dreams and filled my waking moments. More than once, I'd used my own hands to bring me satisfaction, but it was a pale echo of what pleasure Jacob had given me.

My fingers were trailing down my belly when I heard a tap on my window. Rising, too distracted to notice my nudity, I rushed to the window and threw open the casement. I could not believe what I saw . . .

The Highwayman's Seduction

J
eremy paced the length of the parlor set aside for his private use while in London. After yesterday's incident, Sarah had appeared pale and shaky this morning at breakfast, yet she'd insisted that it was nothing more than exhaustion from being in London. He couldn't help but think her ill health was somehow related to his
pursuit of the Lady of Dubious Quality—though, when he'd pressed her about it, she had claimed otherwise.

“I only feel for that woman,” she'd said. “I cannot help but believe that you're playing with her life.”

“You think less of me for my task,” he'd answered darkly.

“Of course not,” she'd replied, though she hadn't been able to meet his gaze.

Now he brooded, certain that she found fault with him for searching for the Lady. Yet he meant what he'd said to her. He had one final lead to track down, and if it came to naught, then he would completely abandon his quest and give up his allowance. He and Sarah would return to Rosemead, there to resume their interrupted lives.

A footman entered the parlor, bearing a silver tray with a letter on it. Wordlessly, the servant handed Jeremy the missive before bowing and taking his leave.

Jeremy frowned over the letter. He didn't recognize the handwriting. His expression still dark, he opened it.

Sir,

I have the item. Meet me at the park in Hackney in half an hour.

There was no signature, but none was necessary. Jeremy knew who it was from and what needed to be done.

After checking on Sarah, who napped in the bedroom, he donned his coat and hat and headed for the
park. Soon all this uncertainty and strain would be over, and everything would go back to normal.

The unnamed park in Hackney was a small square of green, tucked away in a slightly shabby northeast corner of the city. As Jeremy approached it, he observed a man in a somewhat faded jacket sitting on a bench, a brown-paper-wrapped parcel perched beside him. Both the man and the parcel were the objects of Jeremy's mission.

Here Jeremy was, a man of God, on a clandestine errand. Granted, it was for moral purposes, but it was being carried out in a slightly immoral way. He now immersed himself in the shadier side of life.

Without looking at the poorly shaven man, Jeremy sat down, the package between them.

“Is that it, then?” Jeremy asked, staring out at the scrubby trees surrounded by low iron fences.

“The handwritten manuscript for the latest Lady of Dubious Quality book, aye,” the man answered. “It's supposed to go straight from our printing house back to the publisher, but I did like you said and nicked it before it could make the journey. I'll say it went missing.”

“Will you get into trouble?”

The man shrugged. “Might get a talking to, but you said you'd make it worth my while.”

Jeremy handed over a purse heavy with coin. The man tested its weight in his palm before pocketing it. “That'll do nicely,” he said with a wry smile. “What do you want with that thing, anyway, Vicar? Going to publish your own edition? Have a read and a frig?” He leered. “Think your congregation will want to hear it for Sunday sermon?”

“None of your business,” Jeremy snapped. “You've got your payment, now our business is concluded.”

“As you like, Vicar.” The man stood, and then, after a mocking little bow, ambled off.

Jeremy sat alone with the paper-wrapped parcel beside him. After his outing with Marwood, Jeremy had checked on who printed the books, then gone to the printer's office and, after making discreet inquiries, found a clerk who was willing to go behind his employer's back.

Jeremy wasn't entirely certain what it might tell him—other than, perhaps, the true sex of the author, as revealed by the handwriting—but he was grasping at straws now. Searching for any clue he could obtain in order to appease his father.

Given Sarah's misgivings about uncovering the Lady's identity, he hoped that the manuscript would tell him nothing and that his search would finally be at an end. Especially now that he'd found contentment with his life, with Sarah as his wife. He didn't want to be his father's errand boy anymore. It was time to fully embrace his role as a husband, as a man with a profession.

He set the parcel in his lap. Strangely, his hands hovered over the twine used to tie it up. Coldness passed over him. He looked up, convinced a shadow had crossed the sun. But the sky remained pale and empty.

Pushing away the odd feeling of foreboding, he untied the twine and set it aside. He did the same with the brown paper surrounding the manuscript. He held the naked pages in his gloved hands.

Here it is. Now what?

Perhaps, as he'd suspected, there were some hints or signs in the writing. He didn't expect the author to write her name and address on the pages, not when she'd gone to so much trouble to ensure her privacy. The penmanship was distinctly feminine, so it was highly likely that she was, as her name indicated, a woman. But other than that, what did he learn?

It was peculiarly intimate to read the Lady's own handwriting. As though she was penning him a private letter, meant only for his eyes. A letter that contained the most earthy, sensual imaginings. Despite his intention to remain as impartial as possible, his groin stirred, and his pulse increased.

Dymphna cast a lascivious look at the groom. The man was strapping as the stallions he cared for, tall and muscular. He glowed with virility and barely contained sensual impulses. Dymphna could not wait to test his constitution. Her breasts ached for his touch and her quim dampened.

No, he had to stay focused on his task. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he continued to read, searching for anything—marginalia, notes to the editor—that might give some hint as to who the author was.

Yet . . . something seemed peculiarly familiar about the manuscript. As if he'd read it before. But that was impossible. This was a new book, never before printed. He couldn't have seen it at another time. What was it that seemed to ring so clearly in his memory?

. . . the handwriting.

The penmanship appeared painfully recognizable, as though the author lingered just at the fringes of his thoughts but kept herself obscured in a filmy cloud.
Where had he seen it? Whose handwriting was this? A friend's? A parishioner's? A family member's?

No—

He wouldn't allow the thought. He had to prove it wasn't true. His hand moved automatically toward the inside pocket of his jacket, where he kept one of Sarah's notes. He always carried with him a scrap of something that belonged to her. To keep her close at all times. The note was something simple and inconsequential regarding the tending of the glebe near the vicarage.

He reread the note now. Then looked back at the manuscript. Back and forth his gaze went. The truth hit him long before understanding did.

The handwriting was the same. Identical. Same looping
l,
same drifting dot over the
i.
Even the spacing between words and letters was exact. It was right there, in his hands. The proof he needed.

Sarah—his
wife
—was the Lady of Dubious Quality.

H
e ambled through the city streets for hours, too numb and stunned to do anything else besides walk. Every time he tried to wrap his mind around his discovery, his thoughts revolted, his mind rearing back like a horse refusing a bridle.

How could it be? All this time, for years, long before she'd ever known him, Sarah had been writing anonymous erotic novels. Risking herself, the reputation of herself and her family—all to write about sexual misadventures.
Why?
How could she take that chance? What provoked her to do it? How long had she been keeping this secret? Keeping it from everyone, including
him.

A sick understanding hit him. She'd kept the truth from him when they'd married. Had deliberately deceived him.

Damn—if she was the Lady of Dubious Quality, then it stood to reason that she was also the Golden Woman. Another secret she'd hidden from him. Another identity draped in deceit.

No.
No.
He refused to believe it. They had given each other everything. They shared understanding and trust that existed between them alone.

She couldn't purposefully throw that away. She would not.

You don't have proof,
his thoughts whispered.
Just a bit of handwriting. So they look very similar. Doesn't mean she's the Lady. Just ask her.

Yes. He would ask her. When confronted directly, she would have to tell him the truth. She couldn't lie straight to his face. Not his Sarah.

And then she'd laugh and tell him he was being ridiculous—and whoever wrote that manuscript had been educated by the same governess or some other explanation that would turn all of his suspicions to ash.

He was being ridiculous. Utterly foolish. He made himself laugh aloud, though the passersby around him looked at him strangely, then gave the laughing vicar a wide berth as they proceeded down the street.

It was late afternoon. They would be getting ready for dinner at home. He'd simply go back, ask Sarah before the meal, she'd set his mind at ease, and then . . . then he'd throw the manuscript in the fire and go back to life as he knew it. A happy life full of love and honesty. He would make love to Sarah all night, both of
them giddy with the absurdity that he could have ever suspected her of being the Lady of Dubious Quality. Yes. That's exactly what would happen.

He turned around and headed for home. Already the words were forming on his tongue.
I know this is completely ridiculous, love, but are you the woman who writes those salacious books?
He felt frenzied with the need to simply spill the words and have all his doubts thrown away. It would take a single question. A single response. And then it would be done.

He practically bounded up the stairs to the front door. The butler let him in, and Jeremy walked straight to his parlor. He hid the manuscript in a locking drawer of the desk, pocketing the key. Having the pages out and loose in the house seemed an invitation to disaster. Besides, he didn't need to show Sarah the manuscript. A simple question would suffice. He wasn't a Bow Street Runner, trying to gather evidence against a criminal.

After inquiring of a servant, he learned that Sarah was reading in one of the salons. He knew the route, so he took himself to the chamber. The door was open. He approached quietly, his footsteps slowing as he neared, as though treading on a fragile secret. He paused in the doorway and looked at her, unobserved.

Sarah perched on the edge of a settee, a small book in her hands. Late sunlight drifted in through the window, outlining her in gold. Little wisps of hair curled at her nape, giving her a deceptively fragile appearance. Experience had taught him that she was much more resilient than anyone credited her for. She was lovely to him, so lovely his chest and throat ached. Her strength made her even more beautiful.

He must have made a sound, because she looked up. Seeing him, a smile wreathed her face.

“Hello, love,” he said, coming into the room. Words pushed at him. Just a question. And then it would be done. He had only to speak it.

Now.

Say it now.

“Do we know what's for dinner?” he asked.

H
e barely spoke through the meal. His food tasted of clay and sodden cotton. His unease soon spread to the rest of the table, and almost no one spoke. Even his usually cheerful mother could find nothing of which to speak. The only sounds were the clink of silver on china, or the pour of wine into a glass. Sarah kept glancing at him with a silent question, but he had no means of communicating what tore at him. He would look at her, then look away, his mind batting back and forth like a shuttlecock. Surely there had to be a mistake. She couldn't be the Lady of Dubious Quality. It simply could not be true.

It would mean that the entire time they'd known each other, she'd been deceiving him. Everything would be built upon deception and trickery. A house on shifting sands could never endure. It would crumble into rubble and dust at the slightest breeze.

But his question went unasked. All through the torturous meal—he'd never ask her in front of his father, anyway—and afterward, when dinner ended and the women adjourned, he kept quiet.

His father even took stabs at conversing with him over brandy and tobacco. Yet Jeremy's distracted re
sponses were monosyllabic. At last, in exasperation, Lord Hutton retired to the drawing room, there to seek better company. Jeremy trailed after him, but not before undertaking one specific errand within the house. He arrived at the drawing room a few minutes behind his father, to find his mother embroidering, his father reading, and Sarah staring out the window, looking at darkness.

Jeremy attempted to write a letter to Mr. Wolbert, but his efforts stuttered into a page filled with half-begun sentences. At last, he resigned himself to doing nothing but gazing into the fire as his thoughts roiled. His heart thudded heavily as he anticipated going to bed, and what would follow.

Finally, his mother rose with a yawn. “It's been a very long day.”

“So it has,” Sarah agreed, turning around. “I think I'll retire.”