The Thirteenth Earl (13 page)

Miles stood, making a show of dusting himself off.

“We shall see when I tell him you assaulted me. You are an animal, and I no longer feel safe here.” He tugged at the bottom of his coat, straightening his back. “If Spencer does not remove you from the premises, I will leave tomorrow. With my bride and her stepmother.”

Miles marched out.

Thaxton stood by the fire, and it crackled as he seethed. Sutton appeared with an apology for the imposition, which Thaxton accepted almost as if he had not heard. The anger that thrummed through him was an emotion he had not felt in a long time. It felt righteous.

After the rush of throwing Miles around wore off, the consequences came barreling into his consciousness. Should he tell Cassandra all that had transpired? The odds of her doing something drastic would increase if she knew Miles wanted to whisk her away. Thaxton knew now that he could not take it, could not abide having her wrenched from him. He could not let Lady Dorset pull rank and take her stepdaughter home.

It was time he had a frank talk with Miss Seton.

There was a note on Cassandra’s desk:

Labyrinth R, L, R, L. After the meeting. Alone.

Her heart gave a little thrill at the wording, which seemed more intimate, somehow different from the previous notes. She spent extra time on her toilette that night.

Miles had been interminable at dinner; now he was prattling about changes he would make to his father’s decrepit estate after they married. It pained Cassandra to see him spending her dowry in his head, fantasizing about a future that revolved around him. Stables, superior breeds of horses, likely to fuel his none-too-secret love of gambling.

Everything had seemed bleak until she saw Thaxton’s handwriting. All thoughts of being the dismal Mrs. Markwick, a second fiddle to horses, melted away.

When it came time for the meeting with the Spencers, she and Thaxton arrived first. Much like the night of the séance, they were a little too impatient. Instead of “Good evening” or a nod, he said, “You look lovely.”

It took her off guard.

“Thank you,” she said belatedly, sitting next to him on the settee. Cassandra felt herself yearning for the days when he was too scruffy, even though it was barely a week ago. Now that he was always all crisp and clean and infuriatingly symmetrical, her hands wanted to touch him. She folded them in her lap. It was either her imagination or his eyes were getting brighter. The blue that had been a colder, grayer hue nowadays seemed lit from behind, softer.

“Miles came to see me,” he said with a forced casualness that told her there was far more to the story.

“What did he want?”

“He had a lot to say, but then I choked him.”

Spencer and Eliza breezed in with their impeccable timing, both looking the better for having spent the day outside. Eliza had planned a picnic and made sure that there were not any rampant rumors about Thaxton’s door.

Cassandra was stuck on Thaxton’s last comment—had he been serious? Had he physically choked Miles, or was it a strange metaphorical turn? He noticed her quizzical expression and grinned, which changed his whole face. For a moment, just a moment, she felt dizzy.

“Cassie?” Eliza asked in a tone that indicated it was not the first time she had addressed her friend.

“Sorry—yes?”

“I asked if you felt ill. You look flushed.”

“No, no. Thank you. It has been a long day.”

She could feel Thaxton’s grin stretch.

“As I said,” Spencer continued, keeping them on track, “we found the symbol. So that tells us that it is definitely someone who has knowledge of Thaxton’s family. We still do not know if anyone has been to Thaxton’s home.”

“We do,” Thaxton said, sliding a letter across the table. When his hand returned to the settee, it curled behind her back. She could feel him stroking, tracing the bottom of her corset, the fabric between the boning, his fingers smoothing it against her skin. “This is a letter I had previously dismissed as my father’s ramblings. I had thrown it in the trash. Upon reading it now, I see it is the work of a man entranced—with a blonde woman who had visited him.”

“Lucy,” Cassandra said, the hitch in her voice twofold—surprise and the effort of speaking while he was touching her. His hand had stilled at her back, present but no longer teasing.

“This proves she had something to do with it, correct?” Eliza asked, taking up the letter.

“Not definitively, but between this and the leg straps we told you about, it seems likely. She will have noticed the straps are missing by now, which explains her increasingly nervous manner.”

The countess ruffled the letter open. “My, this is some flowery speech. ‘My angel, your perfume lingers.’”

Cassandra could feel Thaxton bristle. “Unkind to use an old man in such a way.”

“Do you want her out, Thax?” Spencer turned stony. “Say the word.”

“No, I want to know why this is happening. And to do that, we all need to be here.”

The surety in Thaxton’s voice alarmed Cassandra, because it sounded so new coming from him. He was a man taken to mumbling, moping, and being mostly indecipherable. Yet this sounded like a fresh resolve and made her wonder more about the evening’s events. His directions to a spot in the labyrinth were tucked in her shoe. It was as if the air around them glowed iridescent with possibility.

Eliza’s eyebrows shot up in tandem, so fast they blurred.

“You two are sitting quite close. Are we no longer polite enough to pretend you are not . . .” She trailed off, searching for an appropriate term. “Carrying on?”

“I like that, Countess,” Thaxton said. “It is apt. We are most certainly carrying on.”

To her horror, Cassandra’s heart did backflips. Hearing him say that, not concerned if Spencer and Eliza knew, started a fluttery feeling in her chest. She had to take a moment before she could speak.

“Well,” Eliza said, not willing to go any further down that path, “I am glad you gentlemen had better luck. As for Cassie and I, neither Lucy nor Miles said anything even remotely incriminating.”

“Miles was solicitous with me,” Cassandra said. “We picnicked. No threats, nothing.”

“He saved that for when he showed up in my chambers,” the viscount said.

“What?” Eliza said, appalled.

Yes, what?
Cassandra’s mind demanded.

“After the hunt, Markwick ambushed me in my own room. Said he wanted to make amends, but proceeded to try to sell me Cassandra for the price of her dowry. I also choked him until he could not breathe.”

“He tried to
sell
you Cassandra?” Spencer was revolted.

“He did. And gods forgive me, I considered the offer.” Thaxton looked over to her, his eyes softening. “If only to be done with it.”

“Reprehensible,” Eliza spat. “It will not stand.”

“I am not surprised by Miles,” Thaxton said. “I am, however, impressed that I did not kill him outright.”

“Very kind of you.” Eliza smiled.

“I will be the one who has to deal with this,” Spencer predicted. “Miles will likely ask me to boot you, Thaxton.”

“He will, but I would appreciate if you did not.” Thaxton glanced over at Cassandra again, troubling her with another of his meaningful glances from heavy-lidded eyes. Eliza was giving her a very different look—the one that translated to “You are playing with fire.”

“Good,” Spencer said. “I feel the same. And I have an idea. I think we should ask Miss Macallister to hold another séance.”

“Brilliant,” Cassandra almost gasped. “I wish I had thought of that. It is just the way to see if we can get new information without letting them know we are onto them.”

“Also, an effective stalling technique. Miles cannot insist I leave nor can he try to run off with his disobedient bride.” Thaxton smiled with satisfaction, and Cassandra could only watch him out of the corner of her eye, for if she met his, she would break into a grin.

“I shall speak with her tomorrow morning,” Eliza decided. “She will feel obligated, even if she does not want to do it.”

After a few more minutes of planning, they retired. When Thaxton kissed her hand to make a show of saying good night, secret promise lurked in his gaze.

“See you soon,” he murmured.

Goose bumps rose on her arms.

Thaxton waited around the final turn of the directions he had given Cassandra. When she rounded the corner, he pulled her into his arms before she could protest. He caught her little yelp with his mouth, swallowed it with a kiss.

“Thaxton,” she said on a breath, “you scared me.”

He nipped her bottom lip; he could not resist. If she insisted on talking, they could damn well talk and kiss at the same time.

“They do call me the Ghost, dear. Boo.”

He bent to take her again. Meeting in the labyrinth had seemed mysterious and dreamy, but now he felt he should have chosen a place where there was somewhere to lie down. The longer the embrace went on, the more his hands roved, the more hers did, he coveted a bed or a settee or any surface that was not the damp ground of the hedge maze. Yet if they had a soft place to land, the situation would get entirely out of hand.

Cassandra pulled her head back. Her face was flushed, and her eyes had the too-bright glow of lust. Thaxton kept his arms around her, encircling. There was no reason for him to hold himself back anymore, or pretend he did not want her. Miles had pushed him to the very point of his patience, and now Thaxton had no guilt at all about. If Miles already thought he was trying to steal his fiancée, then he was damn well going to do it.

“I know you did not call me here just to kiss,” she said.

“Mostly to kiss. Some talking.” He nuzzled her cheek, leaving a small peck in his wake.

“Did you really choke Miles?”

“Indeed, I did,” he said slowly, seeing that the idea pleased her, though she was fighting the feeling. He pulled her closer, tightening his arms around her waist so that they were closer than they had ever been, coiled. “I throttled him. I am not sorry.”

“Still,” she hedged as he traced his lips along her jawline, “you should not have done that.”

“I know,” he rumbled against her neck, feeling her shiver, “but it felt so good.”

“Jonathan,” she sighed.

That husky release of his name was enough to drown any other words; he could not hear anything above the roar in his ears created by her embrace. He knew in a swoop of a feeling like blue light that he loved her. Knew that what he was about to do was what needed to be done. He could start to change things. Cassandra forced him to imagine a future, because he could not conceive of her existing and not being his.

Reluctantly, he pulled back.

“Pardon me for a moment,” he said in a low voice crafted not to intrude on the moment, on the sacred silence of the night and the wind in the trees. He turned, going toward the corner of one of the hedge walls.

Thaxton was sure the box would be where he had buried it. Why would anyone ever check between the hedges in the maze after a right, then left, another right, and a left? The physical location held a specific spot in the labyrinth of his mind as well, the place where he left his soul locked. He parted the hedge with some effort and knelt, examining the small space coiled with foliage. A tiny bit of light shone in, but he could not see very well. He did not need to. He ran his hands over the ground, finding the mound without any trouble. It took him a few moments before he could have a visible effect on the dirt—something that he should have thought through. Why had he not brought a gardening shovel? His hands were filthy by the time his fingers hit the cedar box.

“Jonathan?” Cassandra’s voice asked, perplexed.

“Sorry,” he said, emerging with the tiny relic in his hand. Leaves and twigs clung to him, pieces of the hedge. When he tried to brush them off, he got dirt everywhere—on his jacket, in his hair. Fantastic. He was going to propose to Cassandra covered in dirt and greenery. She was staring at him.

He took a breath.

“I suppose that I am about to tell you something very personal,” he said, in a sort of awe that he
wanted
to tell her. “But you already know a lot of things that should have made you run the other way, yet you did not.”