The Toplofty Lord Thorpe (9 page)

Julian found himself shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Lucy made what he had been taught all seem so trivial, so unimportant—rather like a gentleman was all trimming, and no substance. He caught himself up short. What had she said that day in London—
that he was so worried about his outside that he was not developing his inside?

Realizing that Lucy was still talking, he called himself back to attention. “…and so, as just one more way of proving his point, Papa used to carry a clipping from
The Observer
that was published in 1806. I believe I have it by heart.” She closed her eyes to concentrate for a second, then quoted: “Singular Conviction: A curate of a village near town and one of the overseers of the parish, a gentleman farmer, had a dispute respecting some private business, and the farmer d—d the clergyman's eyes. For this offense he was brought before the magistrates of Marlborough Street, and convicted in the penalty of five shillings. The farmer contended that he was
not
a gentleman, and that he ought pay no more than one shilling. This objection was overruled, as it appeared that he kept sporting dogs and took wine after dinner.”

Dexter exploded into laughter. “That's so bloody perfect!” he exclaimed, delighting in the stony expression that had appeared on Parker's thin face. “The man can damn a curate's eyes and still be a gentleman because he slops wine after downing his mutton. Oh, Lucy, you have exposed us in all our ridiculousness. My hat's off to you!”

“One example like that can't disprove the rule,” Parker decreed repressively. “Look at Cousin Julian if you wish to see a genuine example of the English gentleman.”

A glimmer of rueful amusement entered the earl's gray eyes. “Yes, indeed, people, look at me. I stand
before you accused of driving some poor innocent maid into drowning herself, yet because I have the trappings of a gentleman, I remain a member of—what was that you called it, Lucy?—oh yes, a race apart. Well, if George Anscom, using the rules of society, is to be termed a gentleman, then I'd just as soon resign from society.”

“Was he really that dreadful?” Rachel asked, reaching for the silver teapot Raleigh had just brought in and placed before her, clearly singling her out as hostess, a designation Lucy did not miss.

“He was slovenly, boorish, totally unfeeling about his daughter's death other than to berate the girl for going off and leaving him without a handy live-in servant, and nervy enough to ask if Julian was there to offer him some sort of monetary settlement to make up for seducing his ‘angel,'” Dexter told her disgustedly. “Other than that, he was very helpful.”

Rachel concentrated on Dexter's last statement. “In what way? Could he identify Miss Anscom's real lover—if one does exist?” Clearly Rachel had been entertaining theories of her own, and come up with much the same muddle of motives and means as the rest of them.

“He gave us Susan's personal journal,” Lucy informed her, blushing as she remembered the passage she had read before Julian pulled the book from her hands. “It seems she recorded every meeting she supposedly had with Julian—and in some detail.”

“Oh, my,” Rachel breathed.

“Yes, indeed,” the earl agreed. “Oh my!”

“Shame the gel didn't send the journal to the papers, coz,” Dexter slid in facetiously. “They'd have raised a statue to you and you'd be battling off the females with a stick.”

“That's disgusting!” Parker sneered.

“It's all in the way you look at it, coz,” Dexter jeered, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “It's all in the way you look at it.”

“And we all know your perverted way of looking at things,” the secretary said waspishly. “You're a disgrace to your name, do you know that?”

Dexter bowed from the waist. “Thank you, Parker. If I have succeeded in offending you, I can feel that my life is not wasted.”

“Oh, stop it, both of you,” Lucy interrupted, throwing a quelling look at Lord Thorpe, who was, unbelievably, sitting in his chair doubled up with laughter. “The journal exists, no matter how lurid its contents. And it records everything right down to dates and times—which coincide with the time Julian spent here some months ago.”

“How do you know it's genuine?” Rachel asked shrewdly. “Anyone could have written the thing, and then planted it in Miss Anscom's room after the fact.”

Julian stood and walked over to lean against the mantelpiece. “That same thought had occurred to me, especially when I read the journal more closely. Either that girl had a fervent imagination or she had some help. Even the Minerva Press would blush to read some of her purple prose.”

“Did you read the bit about the tryst you and she had under the moonlight near the spinney?” Dexter asked, leering at his cousin.

“There you go again, Dexter!” Lucy snapped. “Julian never even met the girl. You didn't, did you?” she turned to ask the earl, suddenly remembering the lurid passage she had been reading before he had stripped the journal from her hands.

All traces of humor were stripped from Julian's handsome face.
“Et tu, Brute?”
he asked, making Lucy feel like she had just kicked an orphan puppy.

“No!” she exploded, shaking her head. “It's just…it's just that I was thinking about what I read and, um, I was… Dexter Rutherford, stop grinning like an ape. It's not funny!”

Parker looked at Lucy, who was struggling to regain her composure, and at Julian, who surprised him by looking more than a little pleased at the girl's near-admission of jealousy. “I don't understand,” he said in obvious confusion.

“
You
don't have to,” Dexter reminded him. “Why don't you go count the silver or something, Parker? I for one won't miss you.”

“But…but I think I can be of service,” Parker protested, looking at his employer. “Miss Gladwin suggested that the journal might be a forgery. Well, I happen to have in my possession one of the letters Miss Anscom sent to the papers.”

Suddenly everyone was interested in what Parker had to say. Looking about the room at the people who were eyeing him either incredulously or suspiciously,
he went on, “I visited the newspaper office before we left London, realizing that the letter might be construed to be a clue. Shall I go to my room and get it?”

At Julian's nod of assent, Parker bowed and withdrew, leaving Dexter to comment, “He's a rare bird, ain't he? Who would have thought old Parker would be so resourceful? Not that I like him, understand,” he went on hurriedly, just in case someone took it into his head to think he was softening a bit toward his prudish cousin.

I
T WAS QUIET
in the drawing room except for the ticking of the mantel clock, and the candles had burned down low in their holders as Lucy tiptoed into the room to see Julian sitting sprawled in his chair, staring into the cold fireplace.

Two hours had passed since Parker had brought the letter into the room and they had all gathered round to compare the two handwriting samples. There could be no doubt about it—both the documents had been penned by the same hand, an obviously feminine hand. “Right down to the atrocious spelling,” Dexter had pointed out sadly.

It could mean everything, or it could mean nothing, depending on who was reviewing the evidence. To Lucy and the rest of the party it just showed that Susan Anscom had indeed been a willing participant in the hoax—right up until the time her co-conspirator had pushed her nose beneath the surface of the pond, as Dexter had so succinctly put it. To a court however—and therein lay the rub—it was just another nail in Lord Thorpe's coffin, for who would believe Miss Anscom could have been so gullible?

Rachel had retired within minutes of their latest discovery, knowing full well that the gentlemen should be left to discuss the matter without the re
straints placed on them by having a female within earshot, and had dragged a reluctant Lucy along with her.

Parker, wringing his hands and bemoaning the fact that he had unwittingly strengthened the case against the earl, also retired, leaving Dexter to buck up his cousin's spirits as best he could. This he did in the only way he knew—he poured Julian a generous snifter of brandy and told him to drink up, and then poured him another. And another. And yet another, until, having downed drink for drink just to be sociable, he was forced to retire to his chamber before he disgraced himself by casting up his accounts all over his cousin's carpet.

The clock chimed the hour, halting Lucy in her tracks. “Impossible,” she heard Julian say as he sat looking at his watch, his back to her. “My watch couldn't have stopped. My man winds it faithfully before he puts it on me in the morning.”

Lucy stifled a giggle. When it came to unbending, Julian had come a long way, but it was obvious he still had a long way to go. She could envision him standing stiffly in his dressing room, allowing “his man” to wind his watch for him and then attach it to his waistcoat. She wondered if he even knew
how
to wind his own timepiece, then dismissed the thought as she heard the earl give out with a long, mournful sigh. Poor man, she commiserated, her tender heart wrung. He must be feeling the whole world is closing in on him.

Not stopping to think about what she was about to
do, Lucy sped to Julian's side, dropping to the floor at his knees. “Julian, don't despair,” she pleaded, looking up at him with her wide blue eyes. “Everything will be all right. I just know it.”

Thorpe looked down at her with brandy-clouded eyes and thought he had conjured up an angel. Clad in a white dressing gown from which peeked the neckline of a soft blue nightgown of finest lace-edged silk, the vision before him blurred a bit and then cleared sufficiently to tell him he had not been imagining the whole thing. “Lucy,” he breathed, taking the small hand she held out to him. “You shouldn't be here. It's not proper.”

“Of course it's not,” she answered, smiling impishly. “Would it be any fun otherwise?”

This was wrong, totally, utterly wrong. He should scold her and send her off to her bed posthaste. He really should. The Julian Rutherford of a scant week ago would have done so without a blink—if not without a secret pang or two.

But this wasn't a week ago. This was now, when his fortunes seemed to be at such a low ebb, when his resistance was weak, when his need for comfort was so very, very strong. Not that he would take advantage of the situation—of being alone in the dark with what even his drink-dimmed mind told him was a willing female he had coveted this age—but what real harm could it do to let her stay awhile and talk to him? None, said the brandy—and he decided not to ask any more questions.

Stroking the palm of her hand with his thumb, and
sending tingles of ecstasy up her arm if he only knew it, Julian leaned slightly toward her, the better to see her in the dim half-light. “Thank you for believing in me, brat. I cannot tell you how sorely I am in need of hearing you tell me you think me innocent. As I read that journal, even I began to doubt it myself. It seems so complete, so highly credible.”

“Too complete, my lord, and too credible,” Lucy protested, squeezing his hand. “I have been sitting upstairs thinking this whole thing through. I believe it was a lucky thing that Parker was quick enough to see the importance of that letter. It is another piece of the puzzle. I think we can be assured now that Susan Anscom didn't act alone. Our only task now is to identify her accomplice. Have you given any more thought to a possible enemy?”

Julian sniffed disdainfully. “It would be easier to give you a list of my friends. Dexter was right—I haven't been the nicest person, you know. But I can't believe anyone in my past could have been so insulted by my actions as to hatch such an elaborate scheme. I mean, this man has already killed one person—just to get back at me? I believe we are dealing with a madman.”

Lucy nodded her agreement, and the light from the candelabrum behind her set off golden sparkles in her dark curls, duly noted by the earl. “I think so too. Now we must decide whether the man responsible is either rich enough to have bought Miss Anscom's compliance or handsome enough to have wooed her into going along with the charade.”

Fighting back his mounting desire as Lucy dropped her chin onto his knee in a purely innocent gesture, Julian ventured, “I would say the latter, Lucy. After all, the girl was with child. God!” he exploded, his anger at the coldheartedness of the crime coming to the fore. “How could anyone be so despicable?”

“Not how, Julian, but
why.
I believe that we have already covered the fact that men are not always what they seem, never as good or upstanding as we would like. It is the reason behind the crime that will lead us to the murderer.”

She was right, Thorpe knew. It was ghoulish to be sitting in a lavish drawing room discussing the terrible crime that had been committed, but they had to face the facts squarely. He looked down at Lucy's bent head and realized that she was shivering, either with cold or as a result of their topic of conversation. “Here now, my dear, enough of this,” he said, pulling her to her feet as he stood up. “You'll take a chill. It's time you return to your chamber. I promise not to sulk any longer, and we shall all have a fresh start on our problem in the morning.” He put his hand at the back of her waist so that he could help her toward the doorway.

“But, Julian,” she protested, tilting her head back to look into his face. “I don't think I shall be able to get a wink of sleep. I feel wide-awake.”

Thorpe looked down at her, acutely aware that her cheek was scant inches from his chest. “Shall I…shall I ring for someone to bring some warmed milk to your chamber?” he asked tightly, damning
his heart for pounding so loudly that she was sure to hear it and now he was struggling against his more natural inclinations.

“Do you think warmed milk will help?” Lucy breathed, nervously moistening her lips with her tongue. He was so close, filling her senses with his sight, his smell, the warmth of his hand on her spine.

He brought her round completely so that his hands rested on her shoulders. “I'm sure it would,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving her softly parted lips. Without realizing what he was doing, his head lowered, and time stood still as slowly, oh so very slowly, their mouths came together in a light, tentative kiss.

The fireworks at Vauxhall had never burst as brilliantly against the dark London sky as did the skyrockets now blazing into a rainbow of brilliant colors behind his lordship's tightly closed eyelids. The warm body nestled so closely against his felt softer than his comfortable mattress, but definitely did not inspire him to rest. The taste of her young mouth yielding so sweetly beneath his caused such a thunderbolt of shock to race through his system that he was amazed that he could still keep to his feet.

This was not a cool, antiseptic kiss such as the pecks Cynthia occasionally allowed; nor was it the practiced performance of a woman who earned her living by means of well-orchestrated passion. What he held in his arms was one totally honest, totally giving, totally real woman, and the realization shook him right down to his toes.

Julian's arms tightened about her as he sighed his surrender into her mouth. She had been right all along; he had been concentrating on the outward trappings of life and not paying enough attention to what went on inside his head—inside his rapidly thawing heart. The fleeting thought that he might have lost her if not for the Anscom scandal sent a fresh wave of panic through his veins and his embrace hardened as he drew her slim form against his body as if he would never let her go. He felt whole, he felt alive, he felt
real
—possibly for the first time in his life.

Lucy was lost. Lost in a whole new world of sensation she had only dreamt of before this magic moment in time. She had known Julian was the man for her, been sure of her love for him. But no one had prepared her for the bliss that she felt within the circle of his arms. She was his, completely his, and every feathery-light brush of her fingers against his neck, every soft sound mewling deep inside her throat, every frantic heartbeat fluttering against his broad chest told him of her love. She was his, his for the taking; not totally aware of how much she was offering, but more than eager to learn.

“Really, coz, I never expected this of you,” said an amused voice, causing the two lovers to spring apart and stare in horror at Dexter, who was just then leaning against the doorframe, an impish grin on his face. “I expect it of
me
—everyone expects it of me—but I must tell you I can scarce believe the truth my eyes are telling me. Getting a bit randy in the dull country, are we, or have the banns been announced?”

“Dexter!” Both of them spoke at once, one in surprise, the other in anger and exasperation not unmixed with thanks—thanks that he had been stopped before his control snapped completely and he carried Lucy off to his rooms without benefit of clergy.

“That's me, all right, Cousin Dexter. But who have we here—Darby and Joan, Romeo and Juliet? No. Can it be the sweet, innocent Lucy Gladwin and the upstanding Lord Thorpe?” He shook his head. “Couldn't be the earl. He'd never stoop to seducing innocent young girls of quality. Now why, I must ask myself, does that have a ring of familiarity, do you suppose?”

Julian's hands bunched into fists as he took a step toward his cousin. “How dare you compare Lucy to that Anscom woman?” he growled, not giving a tinker's damn that his cousin had likewise once again questioned his innocence. “Name your seconds, you cur!”

It had taken Lucy a few seconds to recover her equilibrium after Julian released her so abruptly, but like a lioness springing into defense of her cub, she rallied to place her small form between the two cousins before irreparable damage was done. “Stop this nonsense at once, do you hear me!” she commanded, holding a hand against each of their chests. “I won't have it!”

Dexter, who had already begun cursing himself for his loose mouth, realizing that his twisted sense of humor had allowed it to take a healthy bite out of the hand that fed it, was more than willing to call it a
day. “The girl's right, coz,” he interposed hastily, stepping back out of range. “I was just making a joke, honestly. I didn't mean any harm, really I didn't.”

“You never mean any harm,” the earl bit out, still longing to hit something. “That's no excuse. I want you to apologize to Miss Gladwin and then I want your promise that you'll forget everything you just saw. Do you understand?” he ended in a voice that left little doubt of the consequences if Dexter refused.

His apology made, Dexter could not help but remark on how fetching Lucy looked, bringing everyone's attention to the state of her near-undress, and she colored very prettily before bolting from the room with a hand to her mouth. That this caused another thundering lecture to be brought down on the young man's head did little to erase the smile from his face, considering the fact that his cousin seemed preoccupied with another problem more pressing than Dexter's penchant for the ladies.

“It is imperative that you understand the reason why none of what you saw this evening can be made public knowledge,” Julian told him once they were both seated and holding brandy snifters in their hands. “We have already ascertained that there is a man, possibly a madman, trying his level best to destroy me. If he were to discover that Lucy and I are betrothed, he might decide to get at me through her.”

“You're betrothed?” Dexter asked, zeroing in on the one fact he thought truly important. “When you break loose, cousin, you certainly don't do it by half-measures, do you? Congratulations. May you have
half a dozen babies—half of them boys. I never did hanker to walk in your shoes, you know, just as long as you don't take it into your head to cut off my allowance to buy nappies.”

“Will you be serious?” Julian pleaded, trying hard to remain angry with his cousin and, as usual, failing. “I know you're innocent of the plot against me—it is you who seem to have lapses in faith where I'm concerned. Just let me hear that you understand that Lucy is to be kept safely detached from me until we have unmasked the culprit. I can't lose her now.”

Dexter agreed, and after toasting the couple's health, asked, “Was that what you were doing when I so rudely interrupted, coz? Sealing the betrothal?”

Julian smiled then, taking years off his features. “Lucy was saying yes, Dexter, but I never did get around to informing her as to the nature of the question.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the decorative ceiling as if it contained a vision of heaven. “Just think, Dex, my dear cousin, I'm three-and-thirty years of age and yet I've just been born. Amazing, ain't it?”