The Love Affair of an English Lord (9 page)

Chapter 9

Her heart was beating furiously as she entered her bedroom. How still it seemed. The door to the dressing closet was shut, as she had left it. Had he managed to sneak away? How much easier it would be all around if he had. Chloe had not known a moment's peace since she'd found him. A future that involved him did not promise much tranquillity either.

She opened the closet door. His muscular frame was slumped in the corner, one arm draped around her trunk. She was surprised at the reaction of relief that swept over her. His eyes, bright with fever, scrutinized her for several moments.

“Good morning, again,” he said calmly, inclining his head. “Are you ready to shave me?”

“Strangle you is more like it,” Chloe said in indignation. How could he sit there ordering her about and sounding so collected when she had been worrying herself sick over his welfare? “You are the most troublesome person I have ever met.”

A glitter of appreciation lightened his gaze for a moment. “A trait I suspect we share.”

“And will undoubtedly pay for,” Chloe said, unwrapping her napkin. “Here. Eat these while I look at that shoulder. There's a bottle of brandy in my reticule, too. Add pinching my uncle's possessions to my list of crimes.”

“Why do you want to look at my shoulder?”

“I have some horse medicine, you ungrateful, suspicious man,” Chloe said in a very quiet voice. “I stole it from the stable, and no one knows a thing. What do you have to say about that?”

He laid his head back rather meekly, his firm mouth curving into a beguiling smile as she unbuttoned his shirt. “I don't know. If I tossed my mane and gave a few good whinnies, would that qualify as an apology?”

 

He could not stay in her company much longer.

Neither of them had slept much last night. Dominic could see the shadows of fatigue on her pretty, angry face. He knew how often she had checked on him, even though he had pretended to be asleep. What a devilish time to learn that he could still feel such bewildering desire and even tenderness, that he was deeply sorry he had dragged her into his personal hell. Each time she had leaned over him a gnawing hunger had taken hold of him, and it was all he could do not to pull her down onto the floor.

Her body would feel plush against his fevered skin. He could surrender to the erotic images that had haunted his broken dreams.

He could also ruin everything, for both of them, by succumbing to such temptation. It was not only sex he craved. He enjoyed her caring and cleverness but not the weakness she brought out in him.

“Horse liniment,” he mused. “I should be thankful that you are resourceful, I suppose.”

“You should be thankful you are not truly dead.” She paused, her gaze lifting to his. “You must go, Stratfield.”

“I know that.”

There were muffled footsteps from the hall outside the outer door. Chloe quickly pressed the glass bottle into his hand. “Drink this. My uncle is taking us to a play in the rectory tonight. The servants usually retire to the housekeeper's parlor for cards when they are alone—”

His piercing gaze caught her off guard. She stopped, flustered, as he said, “Should we be fortunate enough to meet again, Lady Chloe, I trust it shall be under circumstances that enable us to finish what we started.”

“I—I have no idea what you mean.”

Ah, but she did. He could tell by the disconcerted pause she took, the way her fingers stilled on his shoulder. She had enjoyed the sensual aspects of their encounter as much as he. “I mean this,” he said.

He took her chin between his fingers and leaned forward to kiss her. He heard the small sigh that escaped her and felt her body arch forward involuntarily. She was primed for the taking, alive and simmering with passion. And her wanted her so badly, it was probably for the best that he could not have her. The more involved he became with Chloe Boscastle, the less control he was liable to have over his own life. She could take over a man's heart without even trying.

He buried his face in her warm neck and brushed his hand down her back. “Stay out of the woods, Chloe. It might seem hard to believe, but there are men who are even worse for you than I am.”

 

The village thespians had staged an amateur production of
Hamlet
in the rectory. The acting was so awful that Chloe had to bite the tips of her glove to keep from giggling. She could not concentrate anyway. The mere thought of Hamlet's ghost only reminded her of her own haunted room.

It was during the gravedigger's scene that she became aware of the buzz of speculation that went through the audience. She turned her head and saw a trim, erect, dark-haired gentleman in a cloak take a seat alone at the front of the theater.

Colonel Sir Edgar Williams, Galahad's uncle and presumed heir. At least he had the decency not to parade his nephew's former mistress in public if she was indeed still in the vicinity. Chloe had not heard anything of her recently and even wondered whether the woman deserved Dominic's bitter unforgiveness. One could make a case that a mistress could not be found guilty of infidelity when she did not know her past lover was still alive.

“Well, my heavens,” Aunt Gwendolyn murmured, arching a brow. “Perhaps I can persuade the viscount's uncle to make a contribution to the church rectory. His nephew, despite his other faults, was quite a generous sponsor.”

“Do be quiet, dear,” Uncle Humphrey whispered. He winked at Chloe. “We wouldn't want to miss a word of this scintillating performance. Anyway, Sir Edgar will not have come into complete possession of his inheritance quite yet. There are legal formalities to handle first.”

As he spoke Hamlet accidentally dropped Yorick's skull on the gravedigger's head. The startled actor swore, rubbing his crown, as the audience broke into unrestrained laughter. Sir Edgar chuckled and started to applaud—until his gaze met Chloe and her aunt's.

He inclined his head and smiled in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to the stage. Chloe felt a rather unpleasant tingle spread through her. That brooding, wandering gaze and strong-featured face—

“That's the ghost's uncle you are staring at, Chloe,” Pamela whispered from behind her fan.

Chloe started, realizing that the man did, not unremarkably, resemble Dominic, although a certain vitality seemed to be missing. He was heavier than his nephew for one thing, and years more mature with an old-world gravity about him, a reserve that could be attributed to his military background.

“Why do you think he's broken off with the ghost's mistress?” Pamela asked, her eyes narrowed in speculation. “I mean, assuming that he has.”

Chloe's attention was suddenly diverted; Lord St. John had just arrived, his appearance causing a stir among the young female members in the audience. Chloe held back a giggle as he noticed her, grinning at her with complete disregard for the play for several moments before he took his seat. Trust Justin's blustering self-importance to interrupt a performance.

“I don't know,” she murmured to Pamela, reluctantly returning her attention to the actors onstage, who seemed far less interesting than the audience. “I suppose he has better things to do than shock Chistlebury by bringing the ghost's mistress to a public performance.”

“Or because the pair of them were involved in a murder plot,” Pamela said under her breath.

Chloe felt as though a cup of cold water had been thrown in her face. “What did you say?”

“Well,” Pamela whispered, wriggling away from her mother's chastising scowl, “it's only a notion. But I do hope they find the viscount's murderer soon. The only place I feel safe these days is in the house behind locked doors. Or in my closet.”

Chloe stared straight ahead, afraid her face would give her away. If Pamela and her mother knew exactly who was locked in their house at this moment, they would hardly feel safe. If they guessed for one second that their infamous houseguest from London had been half seduced by the local village ghost—

Heat flooded Chloe as the memory of Dominic's intimate aggression returned in full force. Her hand trembled as she snapped open her fan to cool her stinging cheeks and throat. The desperate hunger in his touch had awakened a dangerous fascination inside her. It was to be hoped that she would never be in a position again to fight such temptation. Or to succumb to it.

 

He was gone.

She felt his absence as acutely, as powerfully, as she had felt his presence. The moment she walked into her room, she sensed that he had gone. The air still seemed charged with his potent energy, and she was sure she would never forget him, but he had vanished.

She lit three candles and carried one into the dark dressing closet. The window was carelessly left open, and the breeze that fluttered the curtains hinted of rain. The candle expired almost the same instant as she noticed a piece of small folded foolscap on the floor.

She bent to pick up the paper, then straightened to close the window. There was no sign of him outside. No ghostly figure lurking in the garden to wave good-bye. He had evidently felt strong enough to make a successful escape. But to where?

Perhaps the paper held a clue. She took it back into her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, slowly opening it in the candlelight. For a second she did not believe what she read.

“A code,” she whispered. A cryptographed message very similar to the ones that she had once found in Heath's personal possessions. Perhaps if two of her brothers had not dabbled in intelligence affairs, the garbled numbers in the cramped columns would not have meant a thing. But as it was, the sight of a coded missive did not shock her.

What shocked her was that Stratfield had obviously dropped it while escaping. And that the handwriting was in her dead brother Brandon's very distinctive script.

 

“Chloe,” a male voice whispered behind her.

She dropped the paper on her pillow, stifling a scream as a dark-garbed figure loomed in the dressing closet door. For an irrationally relieved moment, she thought her ghost had returned, but the shadowy figure soon resolved into the more familiar and far less threatening form of her outlaw brother, Devon. She had practically forgotten all about the rogue.

“Oh, it's you,” she said in a soft voice, tucking the scrap of paper under her pillow. “Why do you have to sneak up on me like that?”

He gave her an engaging grin, his blue eyes glittering. “I can hardly announce myself with a fanfare of trumpets, can I?”

“You shall be announced in prison if you don't stop playing highwayman, Devon Boscastle,” she said in a burst of irritation.

He looked genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean? It was once, Chloe. A very bad mistake of judgment.”

She jumped up to face him, his equal in temperament if not in size. “Cooper's Bridge. And don't lie to
me.
It isn't funny.”

“Cooper's Bridge?” He ran his hand through his short black hair.

“The Kissing Highwayman, Devon. You have to stop.”

He blew out a sigh of annoyance. “It wasn't me. . . . I seem to have started a fashion, Chloe. It's a damned embarrassment if you must know. Bored young men are holding up coaches to steal kisses.”

“And risking their lives,” Chloe said, looking him over.

“Well, I can't stop their stupidity, can I?”

She hesitated. “It really wasn't you?”

“Good God, no. I've been quite a good boy, believe it or not, helping old Cousin Richard pot his orchids. What about you?” He leaned against the dresser, giving her a rueful look. “Desperate for a bit of excitement, are you?”

She glanced away from his shrewd gaze. “You have no idea.” And he would not believe her if she told him exactly how much spine-tingling excitement she had encountered since his last visit.
Should
she tell him?

“You've met a man,” he said, amused and concerned at once.

She looked up, a little too quickly to hide her guilt. “Don't be silly. In Chistlebury?”

He strolled across the room, eyeing the pillow behind her. “That was a love note you were reading, wasn't it? Lord above, Chloe, don't go falling for some country bumpkin. Our exile shan't last much longer.”

“I most certainly hope not,” she said. She hesitated a moment. “Devon, no one will talk of it, but you've always been candid with me. Do you think Brandon might have been involved in espionage after he left England?”

“In the Honourable East India Company? I doubt it, although before—” He met her gaze. “It shouldn't be a secret, not from you, not since he's dead. I believe he carried a few messages back and forth for Heath in Portugal. Imagine surviving the war only to be ambushed by fanatics. It doesn't seem right, does it?”

Chloe shook her head, feeling torn between trusting him and the promise she had made to a man she barely knew. Should she break her word to Dominic? After all, she could not be held accountable for a vow she had made while being tossed on the bed and kept a virtual hostage. But . . . a promise was a promise, and if that was the only way to learn what had really happened to Brandon, then so be it.