The Bed and the Bachelor (9 page)

She clamped her lips closed, cutting herself off this time before she had the chance to say the word “orrery.”

I really do seem determined to destroy myself today, don’t I?

“—The . . . um . . .” she waved at hand toward his orrery, “the m-machine there that makes all the little balls twirl around. Which is why I just assumed that the bit of mathematical scribbling up on your slate must be related as well.”

She drew a breath before continuing. “As for knowing what astronomy is, I am literate and enjoy reading when I have the opportunity. My education is broad enough that I’ve heard of astronomy even if I don’t understand any of the specifics of the subject. After all, a visitor to a museum can recognize a piece of artwork without knowing how to create it. So you see, my comment was nothing more than a logical guess. Assuming I’m right?”

Heart thundering in her ears, her throat dry as a windswept street, she waited to see if he believed her tale. Or had she pushed her explanation too far?

He met her gaze for another long moment, his own eyes still narrowed with lingering suspicion. Then, abruptly, he relaxed. “Yes, you are exactly right. And familiar with the subject or not, you have more native understanding than most university-educated men. Half of them don’t even know that the earth actually revolves around the sun and not the other way ’round.”

“Does it?” she quipped with deliberately feigned ignorance.

He smiled. “It does.”

Unable to help herself, she smiled back.

After a moment, he glanced away. “I have an engagement this evening as I advised you earlier, so if you have finished with your cleaning, I would appreciate a measure of privacy.”

“Of course, your lordship. I was just polishing a few last odds and ends when you came in. I’ll collect my supplies and leave you to your work.”

Giving a nod of thanks, he strode behind his desk and busied himself with some of the documents stacked on its surface.

Gathering her rags and broom and buckets, she carried all of them into the hall, drawing the door closed behind her. She was relieved to find the corridor empty since a fine tremor chased over her skin the moment she was clear of the room.

Leaning back against the wall, she gave an inaudible sigh.

A minute passed as she steadied her nerves.

Then another.

She was about to collect the cleaning implements and make her way belowstairs when she noticed that the workroom door—which she thought she’d firmly latched—had drifted ajar. It stood open the faintest sliver of an inch, providing a narrow view into the room. As she reached out to close it, she stopped, her gaze riveted on Lord Drake.

No longer seated behind his desk, he’d crossed to the far end of the room so that he stood in profile. Clearly unaware that she was watching, he reached up and lifted a rather unremarkable landscape painting from the wall. She’d dismissed it entirely when she’d been searching the room.

Now she realized what a grave mistake that had been. For behind the painting, engineered into the very wall boards themselves, lay a safe.

Why had she not thought of it before?
He has a hidden safe!

But even as she began contemplating ways to get inside, she saw that it wouldn’t be easy. The safe appeared to be of a sophisticated design, similar to one of several her contact had shown her as part of her training for this task. If Lord Drake’s safe was the same as that other one, then it used a special key to unlock a system of internal iron bolts that ran the length of the door. Nearly impossible to penetrate, she knew she didn’t have the skill to even attempt opening it—not even with the smattering of lock-picking skills her contact had also done his best to teach her.

No, she would need the key to get inside, just as Lord Drake did.

Watching, she waited to see where he kept that key, waiting for him to take it out of his pocket or from a drawer inside his desk—a lock she might have a chance of picking open.

Instead, her mouth opened in silent amazement as she saw him insert a pair of fingers into his elegantly tied neckcloth and begin extracting what appeared to be a fine gold chain.

Up and up it came, the chain lengthening until at last he pulled free a gleaming brass key.

Why of all the infallible precautions!

Even if she had somehow discovered the safe on her own, she knew she would have gone mad trying to locate the key. After all, who would imagine he wore the blighted thing around his own neck!

Unable to look away, she watched him insert the key into the lock and open the metal door. Inside were stacks of pound notes and a few leather pouches she assumed contained coins. She also saw the thick, dark outline of bundled papers that could only be extremely important documents. Among them must surely be the cipher. She would stake her life on it.

A man like Lord Drake wouldn’t take such elaborate precautions just to protect money and ordinary papers. No, he was protecting something of far greater worth.

He was protecting secrets.

Secrets she finally knew where to find.

Heart beating wildly between her ears, she backed stealthily away from the door, knowing she dare not so much as touch it lest Lord Drake turn and catch her spying.

Leaving the cleaning supplies where they sat for fear she would make a noise, she tiptoed away; she would send one of the maids up in a little while to collect the items.

In the meantime, she had a great deal to contemplate.

She now knew where to find the cipher. But
mon Dieu,
how was she ever going to get the key, since Lord Drake wore it around his own neck?

Chapter 8

W
ith a bag of gold guineas in hand, Drake counted out what he thought would be sufficient for his evening on the Town, then slipped them inside the interior pocket of his coat. Pulling the strings closed on the leather pouch, he reached to place it back inside the safe when a long, unlikely creak sounded in the hallway. He paused and looked around, noticing as he did that the door to his workroom stood open a couple of inches, wide enough for anyone walking past to glance in and see exactly what he was doing.

Striding across, he opened the door, half-expecting to find one of the servants in the hallway. But the corridor stood empty—or at least empty of human beings—only the broom, bucket and dust cloths Mrs. Greenway had used for her cleaning expedition taking up space where they had been propped against the wall.

Curious she hadn’t taken them with her, he mused. But then, he supposed that was one of the upstairs maids’ jobs, his housekeeper only troubling herself to clean his workroom today because he wouldn’t let anyone of the others inside.

He’d lost a week’s work the last time one of them had touched his things. Another man would have dismissed Cobbs for the error, but she’d cried and said she was ever so sorry and it would never happen again. Knowing Cobbs was a well-meaning sort and generally performed her duties with skill, he hadn’t had the heart to do anything but give her a reprimand and send her on her way, vowing never to let any of them clean his domain again.

Until today.

Until Mrs. Greenway, who, he begrudgingly admitted, seemed to have managed the task without causing any damage. Everything was basically where he’d left it—only a little neater now—and more importantly, intact. The room smelled sweet too, the floors and woodwork tidy and gleaming with a fresh coat of lemon polish, the window glass sparkling and clearer than he could recall its being in ages.

Odd how she’d guessed that his mathematical proof dealt with astronomy. Then again, as she’d said, her conclusion was only logical, he supposed, considering all the books and papers on the subject that he kept strewn around the room. Reasonable, as well, that the noise he’d heard was nothing more than that—a noise. Old houses creaked and squeaked and groaned sometimes—his own being no exception.

Giving a shrug, he shut the door, making sure the lock clicked tightly this time. Returning to the safe, he tucked the money pouch back inside. As he did, he shifted some of the contents around inside. Among them, within a leather sheath, was the secret code he’d developed for the War Office. And just recently he’d improved the code, adding a number of even more complex equations to the mix.

The War Office had a copy for safekeeping, as did his brother Edward, but he preferred to keep the originals in his own hands. In his own safe, which he’d taken great pains to make sure was the best and strongest available. He knew the French would love to get their hands on the code since apparently even their finest minds couldn’t replicate his work, or so Edward had heard it secretly rumored.

Of course there had been the attempted burglary here at the town house last fall, but he’d put excellent precautions in place and wasn’t concerned. His staff had keen eyes as well and were unfailingly attentive and loyal, which they’d amply proven on that occasion.

On the evening in question, Morton and Harvey had been up late caring for a sick horse when they’d seen a faint light in the house and noticed the window to Drake’s workroom braced open. Aware that Drake was away at Braebourne, Edward’s principal estate in Gloucestershire, they knew something was amiss. They investigated and discovered a strange man going through their master’s belongings. With surprise on their sides, they’d subdued the intruder with only a minor scuffle, then called in the authorities.

Nothing had been taken, it was found, and the man had none of Drake’s possessions concealed on his person even though he claimed he’d broken in to steal valuables. But why, Drake had wondered afterward, had the thief chosen his town house when there were others nearby with items of far greater worth to steal? And why pick this particular room, when any burglar with sense would have gone straight for the dining and drawing rooms in search of the silver? Drake had no proof, but he was convinced the man had been there searching for the code.

Well, if they tried again, they would be just as unsuccessful. Not only had he installed the sophisticated wall safe that lay behind the landscape painting, but he’d taken to wearing the key that opened it. No one but he and his valet knew he wore the key around his neck, and he had complete faith in Waxman, who’d served in the Army before he’d been mustered out with a bad knee and gone into service.

There was Vanessa, he conceded, but she had no curiosity about such things and even less interest in his work. They never spoke of the key, and he never mentioned either the code or the reason he’d taken to wearing the key. In deference to her wishes, he usually removed it while they were in bed together, but it was always back around his neck again when he dressed to leave.

Speaking of which, he thought, as he closed the safe door and locked it, he supposed he ought to pay her a visit. She’d sent him a note a couple of days ago—instantly identifiable by its pink stationery and gardenia fragrance—which urged him to put aside his work and pay her a call. Instead, he’d put the note aside, far too immersed in his theoretical constructs to be interested in conducting any midnight trysts. But with his work concluded, for the time being at least, he was free to do as he liked. Yet even as he considered the idea of spending the night in his mistress’s bed, he rejected it.

For one, he was scheduled to attend the theater tonight with the family and would likely find himself invited for a late supper afterward at Clybourne House. He could always excuse himself, he was sure, but strangely enough he wasn’t certain he wished to be excused. Part of him would much rather watch the play, talk and relax with his family, then return home.

Then again, if Anne Greenway were the one waiting for him . . . ruefully he knew he’d dash off his excuses for both the theater and the supper and unhesitatingly spend those hours in bed with her.

Ignoring the arousal that was suddenly plaguing him, he lifted the painting from where it sat on the floor and hung it back in its place. Taking his time making certain the canvas was straight, he focused on ridding his mind of thoughts of his housekeeper and how lovely he imagined she would look lying naked against his sheets, her magnificent hair flowing around her like scattered autumn leaves.

And here he’d spent the past week assuring himself he was doing better on the wanting-Anne-Greenway front.
So much for effective self-delusion.

Well, the inclination to bed her would pass soon enough, and what better way to put her out of his mind than to surround himself with family. Within the hour, she’d be the last person in his thoughts.

D
rake traced his pencil over a page in the small notepad he always kept tucked in his coat pocket. Usually he used it to jot down ideas and random equations. Instead, as he sat in the Clybourne box, waiting for the curtain to rise on a performance of
Macbeth,
it wasn’t mathematics on his mind.

“Who is that?” murmured the dulcet voice of his sister, Mallory, from the seat to his right.

Imperceptibly, he jumped, having failed to notice her as she’d slipped into the seat a few moments ago. Her husband, Adam, was still across the small aisle talking to Cade and Meg about harvesting methods of all things.

“She’s no one,” he lied.

Putting a halt to his sketching, he flipped the leather cover closed over the drawing he’d been doing of Anne Greenway, then slid the notepad into the inner silk-lined pocket of his evening coat.

Mallory angled her head and gave him a clearly disbelieving look. “For
no one,
she’s awfully pretty. Someone you’re pursuing? And don’t worry, now that I’m married I can admit to knowing all about the amorous liaisons in which men engage. Adam tells me such tales of things he hears at the club. You wouldn’t believe the half of them.” She paused. “Then again, maybe you would, especially if you ever set foot in the club.”

“I visit on occasion, and clearly Adam should keep his mouth shut,” Drake grumbled.

Mallory let out a chortling laugh. “I’ll have to tell him you said so.”

He frowned, casting a quick glance toward the man in question and his other relations to make sure his conversation with Mallory was going unnoticed. Assured it was, he relaxed—slightly.

Only imagine
, Drake thought,
if I told her the truth—that I was drawing my housekeeper!

A good thing Mallory rarely paid visits to his town house, or she would realize instantly the identity of the mystery woman. But he preferred to leave Mrs. Greenway exactly that—a mystery—along with his interest in her.

“Let us speak of other things,” he said, wanting done with the topic. “I hear felicitations are in order and that I’m to be an uncle again. When is the little one due?”

Mallory flushed in a way that made her cheek glow with happiness and contentment, her curiosity clearly diverted at mention of her impending motherhood.

“It’s probably a tad too soon to be absolutely positive, and Adam wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but December, I think. Assuming I truly am with child—”

“—Which you obviously believe you are,” he said.

Cheeks glowing brighter, she nodded. “Mama is already encouraging Adam and me to stay at Braebourne for my lying-in. But I’d like to have the baby at home, at Gresham Park. I just have a feeling it’s going to be a boy, and I want him born in the place that will one day be his.”

“Well, so long as you’re both healthy afterward, that’s all that matters.”

Smiling, Mallory leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his cheek. “He’s lucky to have an uncle like you.”

Drake gave a quiet snort. “He’ll have loads of uncles. And cousins. Good Lord, if the lot of you keep producing offspring at the rate you are, we’ll have a cricket team in no time.”

“Apparently Jack has already made mention of the idea. He says his girls should be allowed to play since he knows they’ll beat any of the boys. Knowing Jack—and Grace—I rather suspect he’s right.”

This time, they both grinned.

Not long after, the cackling pronouncements of witches began the play, Adam sliding into his seat on the other side of Mallory. From the corner of his eye, Drake saw them join hands.

Forcing his attention to the players on the stage, he watched the story unfold. By the time the interval arrived, however, he was more than ready to stretch his legs. Offering his excuses, he made his way into the hall, hoping if he went quickly enough, he could make it downstairs to the refreshment tables before he was stopped by an acquaintance wanting to talk. He hadn’t gone ten feet before his hopes disappeared.

“Lord Drake. We were just coming to pay our respects to you and your family,” Richard Manning, Viscount Saxon, said as he extended a gloved hand.

Possessed of a tall, robust frame, the viscount had thick dark hair that was greying heavily along the temples. It gave him a rather distinguished look that complemented his square jaw and long Roman nose. Despite being in his early fifties, the viscount exuded a confident charm that Drake guessed still had the power to attract the ladies.

When they’d been introduced a couple of weeks before at Ava and Claire’s afternoon fête, Drake had learned that Lord Saxon owned a prosperous, well-run estate in Devonshire; that he was a widower, who had lost his wife seven years earlier; and that he was very protective of his only child, Verity, who at nineteen, was making her come-out this Season and her very first trip to London.

Drake had made Miss Manning’s acquaintance at Ava and Claire’s fête as well, finding her a pretty, well-mannered, yet shy young lady. Having been forewarned by his mother that he was already in the offing as a possible suitor for her hand, he’d done his best at the time to be polite and attentive without giving the least bit of encouragement on that score to either Verity Manning or her father.

To his exasperation, however, he could see that his efforts had failed to take hold and that they were both still under the mistaken impression that he might be brought up to scratch. Although why Saxon thought he’d make a good husband for his daughter, Drake didn’t know.

Mama, no doubt, had been singing his praises to the man, leaving out certain bits of information, such as Drake’s complete lack of interest in being leg-shackled.

In general, Mama wasn’t the sort to interfere in her children’s lives, especially when it came to playing matchmaker. But perhaps all the recent marriages in the family had been putting unfortunate ideas in her head. One would think, since she had eight children, that she could let one of them remain unwed—namely himself. He knew she only wanted him—and all his siblings—to be happy, but he wished she would accept the fact that he liked his bachelor state and leave it at that.

He also wished in future that she would refrain from setting him in the path of the eligible young daughters of her acquaintances and friends. Although to be fair, he supposed that happening upon Lord Saxon and his daughter tonight in the theater corridor couldn’t be laid at Mama’s feet—or at least not directly.