With This Kiss (19 page)

He could even convince himself it was for her own good. He wouldn’t take her against her will, naturally, but he was skilled enough in the art of seduction that she would quickly enough become a willing partner. That decided, Morgan loosened the belt to his robe and shrugged the garment off.

He moved to slip in bed beside her when a flicker of light from the oil lamp reflected in a mirror across the room. Distracted, he glanced up, and then froze as he caught a glimpse of the tableau they made. Julia, the porcelain perfection of her skin glowing in the warmth of the lamp. A goddess come to life. Then his gaze shifted to his own body. The fire hadn’t marred his skin everywhere. But there were hideous patches where it had licked his skin raw, leaving it puckered and grotesque, reddened and angry, stretched taut over his muscles. His back. His hands and forearms. The nape of his neck. His left hip.

After the fire he had made it a point to avoid mirrors when he bathed, waiting until he was fully clothed to check his appearance. Now he couldn’t help but stare.

The Beast.

Fragments of his dream rushed back to him. The smoke, the heat, the flame.

Patty-cake, patty-cake.

His fault. All of it his fault.

His desire, the pounding pulse that had driven him to seek out his wife, instantly shriveled and vanished. He reached for his robe and shrugged it on. Extinguishing the oil lamp, he retraced his steps and left the room, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

“I beg your pardon?” Lionel Oakes, Morgan’s private secretary, studied his employer with an expression of blatant disbelief. “Did you say—”

“Accept it,” Morgan affirmed. “And the rest.”

“All of them?”

Morgan turned from his position at the window of his study. He crossed the room to the small desk where Mr. Oakes sat. Impatiently he held out his hand. “Here, let me see them.”

He rifled through the minuscule stack of engraved linen cards, privately amazed that invitations still arrived at all. Particularly since he hadn’t accepted an invitation to a ball or dinner in over two years, as evidenced by his secretary’s shock at his abrupt turnabout.

“Yes,” he said, passing the invitations back. “Accept them all, and mark my calendar accordingly.”

“Including tomorrow night’s gala at Lord and Lady Winterbourne’s?”

“Send a note this afternoon,” Morgan replied. “‘Viscount Barlowe exceedingly regrets his late reply, but is honored to accept the kind invitation,’ et cetera, et cetera.’” He waved his hand dismissively in his secretary’s direction. “You know what to say.”

“Yes,” Lionel Oakes stuttered. He was a young man with a round face, round glasses, and meticulously neat attire. Despite his youth he projected a decidedly stodgy air. Given to an innate dislike of the unexpected, he carried an umbrella with him everywhere he went. Morgan’s response had obviously taken him by surprise, but he was quickly recovering. “Yes, of course,” he replied.

“Mention that my wife, Viscountess Barlowe, will be accompanying me as well.”

His secretary bowed his head and made a note. “To tomorrow night’s engagement or all of them?”

“All of them. Have you met her?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lionel Oakes looked decidedly confused by the question. Their discussions had always pertained exclusively to Morgan’s business affairs. Never once had they shared anything that might be considered a personal conversation.

Nevertheless, Morgan doggedly continued. “My wife. Have you met her?”

“Oh. Ah… yes. Indeed. I have had that honor.”

“What was your impression of her?”

“My impression?” Lionel Oakes fiddled uncomfortably with his glasses for a moment, giving the matter what seemed to Morgan undue thought. He looked distinctly put out, as though asking for his personal opinion were clearly outside the purview of his duties. At last, apparently resigning himself to the fact that he would not be granted a reprieve from answering, he reluctantly replied, “My impression is that she is quite lovely, Lord Barlowe. Quite… genteel.”

“Genteel,” Morgan echoed, a wry smile curving his lips. “Were you aware that we were assaulted at knifepoint last week?”

“Good God.”

“There were three assailants. When one of the men came at me with a knife, my genteel wife lifted a heavy stick of kindling and swung at the man’s groin with all her might. As you might imagine, the blow was quite effective.” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man turn that particular shade of green before.”

Oakes looked horrified. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.”

“Nor did he.”

Morgan moved away from his secretary’s desk and returned to his former station near the window. He leaned one shoulder against the windowpane, listening as the sounds from the street drifted toward him. He heard a heavy cart rumbling by, a barking dog, the steady
clip-clop
of a horse and carriage, the sound of a young boy — a newspaper vendor, perhaps? — shouting out the price of his wares. They were mere guesses as to what he was hearing, however. Just as the tall gates that surrounded his estate prevented anyone from seeing inside, he was equally prevented from seeing what was occurring outside. He had a view of the city in the distance, but the tall gates rendered him blind to his immediate surroundings. A fact that had never elicited much interest or concern on his part. But now he couldn’t help but wonder what he might be missing.

“Viscountess Barlow informed me last week that I have been using the walls of this estate to hide behind,” he announced. “Would you concur with that opinion, Mr. Oakes?”

“I would say that you were recuperating from your injuries,” his secretary returned loyally.

“Really. Is that what I’ve been doing?”

Morgan’s gaze drifted out over the gardens. Despite the sweltering heat he had seen Julia head in the direction of the rose arbor some thirty minutes ago. A broad straw hat had covered her head, and a large basket had been tucked under her arm. A glance in that direction confirmed that she was still there. From his vantage point he could not see her face, just her shapely rear and the soles of her shoes. Apparently she was on her hands and knees, mucking about in the dirt. Such odd habits.

Returning his attention to his study, he noted how dark and dim the room was, compared with the shimmering brilliance of the day. How stuffy. In a nod to the heat Morgan was attired in a loose white linen shirt and lightweight buff-colored pants. His secretary, however, was apparently immune to the weather. Lionel Oakes was dressed in a somber brown suit, starched shirt, necktie, and sturdy walking boots. His ever-present umbrella was at his side.

“I have examined their portfolio at length,” Oakes droned on, his nose buried in a thick folder. “The return on investment is quite high, as might be expected for such a risky venture, but there remains the problem of negative capital expenditure. Not an insurmountable problem, granted, but one that should be examined more closely before—”

“What brand of soap do you use, Mr. Oakes?”

Lionel Oakes’s head snapped up. He studied Morgan blankly, then blinked twice behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

“Matthews and Hornsby. Do you ever purchase it?”

“No, I do not.”

Morgan frowned. “I see.”

Oakes hesitated a moment, then added helpfully, “Perhaps it will interest you to know that my mother did. She mentioned just yesterday, however, that she will not continue to do so in the future. I don’t recall exactly why; something to do with spilled tallow, I believe.”

“Remarkable.”

A small smile touched Morgan’s lips, but he offered nothing further. Clearly trying to make sense of the question, his secretary asked, “Were you considering buying an interest in that firm?”

“No, not particularly,” he replied with a shrug. “Just indulging a bit of curiosity, I suppose.”

Lionel Oakes shifted uncomfortably. “Ah.”

Taking pity on the man, as well as resigning himself to the fact that he was not going to get any work done, Morgan turned abruptly from his station near the window and crossed the room, pausing at the door to his study. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Oakes. I believe we’re quite finished for the day.”

His secretary’s mouth fell agape at the unprecedented midday dismissal. “But what about…” he began, gesturing to the thick pile of untouched papers beside him. Then, abruptly recalling himself, he stood and executed a tight bow. “Of course. Very good, Lord Barlowe.”

Morgan turned from the study and left the house. As he stepped outside, the heat of the day greeted him like a blast from a coal furnace.
Damned unseasonably warm,
he thought in irritation. The weather had been fairly tolerable when he had gone riding earlier that morning. Now it was sweltering. Shimmering bands of heat pulsated in blistering waves in the distance. The sky was cloudless, and so pale a blue, it was almost white, as though overbaked by the sun. The gardeners and groomsmen, normally at the peak of their labors, moved listlessly about in the shade.

He strode across the grounds in the direction of the rose arbor. There he found Julia in the same position he had seen her from his study window: kneeling down on all fours near the base of a rosebush. She held a pair of pruning shears in one hand; the basket beside her brimmed with freshly cut flowers.

Morgan stopped behind her, waiting for her to take note of his presence. When she failed to do so, he made himself known with a soft “Ahem.”

Visibly startled at the intrusion, Julia spun about and squinted up at him. “Oh. It’s you.”

Hardly the warmest of welcomes, but he supposed it would do. “If you have a moment, I should like to speak with you.”

“Actually, I’ve been most anxious to see you,” she replied, adopting a brisk, businesslike demeanor. She rose and withdrew a parchment envelope from her pocket, passing it to him. “Mr. Randolph delivered this earlier this morning.”

Morgan took the note and read,

Flame,

How greatly you disappoint me, my love. We could have accomplished great things together. Instead you choose to lay with filth. Now you leave me no choice.

You must pay for your treachery.

When I have assembled you, I will blast you with the heat of my anger and smelt you with it.

Lazarus

His fingers tightened on the letter as a surge of grim victory swelled in his chest. “Lazarus. So he hasn’t abandoned us after all.”

“I wanted to show you the note the moment it arrived, but you were in conference with your secretary. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

“In the future, you may feel free to do so immediately.”

“Very well.”

Despite the threatening nature of the missive, Morgan noted that Julia didn’t appear the least bit intimidated or frightened by it. Or even surprised, for that matter. “You were expecting this, weren’t you?” he remarked, studying her intently.

“Let us say that I was not shocked when it arrived.”

“Why?”

She hesitated, and then lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Yesterday I bought a lace shawl at a small shop near Coventry Market. While I was there, I
felt
him watching me. I know it must sound foolish, given that I have no idea who the man is, but I knew he was there nonetheless. In the middle of that crowded street… lurking, waiting, and watching. Just as I felt him watching me at the Devonshire House the night you and I met.”

“He was at the Devonshire House?”

“I can’t say for certain, but—”

“But you felt his presence.”

“Yes.”

“Very good,” he murmured, thinking aloud. He would not discount or belittle intuition. In his experience it was just as valid as any other sense, consisting primarily of information that the mind had collected but hadn’t yet processed logically. “That would be in agreement with my own speculations.”

“Oh?”

“I believe the man we seek is a member of the peerage. If you recall, the thinking at the time of the fires was that the arsonist was probably a disgruntled servant, someone who wanted to take some measure of revenge against his betters.”

Julia nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

“I was never convinced of the right of that reasoning. The morning of the fire on my property, it was densely foggy, too foggy for me to get a close look at the man. At the time I thought I was chasing a common thief. But later, when I examined my memory at greater length, it was evident that that was not the case.”

She regarded him curiously. “Why?”

“His boots. When I leaped to tackle the man, I missed. My hands came in contact with his boots instead. I distinctly remember that the leather was remarkably sleek and supple, and that the soles were barely worn. Granted, he could have stolen them, but there were other things about him that marked him as an individual of some means. The fact that he had a horse waiting — a fine piece of horseflesh, not a tired old nag. Would a common thief be able to afford the boarding and upkeep of such an animal here in London?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That could all be explained, of course,” she said after a moment.

“True. I’m merely stating my impression of the man, combined with my own instincts, if you will.”

“Yes.” She considered that for a moment, then remarked, “I took the liberty of writing Mr. Chivers of Scotland Yard and informing him of these latest developments. I expect he shall pay us a call soon.”

“He’ll likely tell us we are a pair of fools.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Uncomfortably aware of the thick heat pulsing down upon them, Morgan nodded toward his estate. “May I accompany you inside?”

Julia hesitated, then gestured with her pruning shears to the bush she was working on. “It will just take me a minute or two to finish, if you don’t mind…”

“Not at all.”

He nodded politely and stepped past her, seating himself upon a stone bench as he watched her at her task. The pile of deep yellow roses in the basket beside her steadily grew. Shifting his attention slightly, Morgan’s gaze moved to the simple cotton gown she wore. In what was likely a concession to the weather, she wore minimal undergarments beneath it. The lightweight fabric clung to her body as she moved, pulling at her hips and thighs. She had unbuttoned the top of her bodice as she worked; a faint sheen of perspiration glistened in the shadowy cleft between her breasts.