A Lady of His Own (8 page)

After a moment, he murmured, “That’s it, for now.”

Lowering his hands, he stepped back.

She breathed in, quickly turning away to conceal how desperate she was for air. “If we go around to the garden door, it’ll look like we’ve just arrived.” She started off as she spoke, embarrassed that after all these years, she still couldn’t control her reaction to him, her wayward senses.

He prowled beside her, blessedly silent.

Her stage setting proved inspired; as they walked into the front hall from the direction of the stables, Nicholas came down the stairs.

She looked up. “Good morning, Nicholas.”

“Penelope.” Gaining the hall, he nodded in greeting, his gaze shifting immediately to Charles.

Who smiled. “Good morning, Arbry.”

“Lostwithiel.”

A pregnant pause.

“I’ve offered Charles the use of Papa’s maps,” she cheerily announced—anything to bring their masculine eyeing contest to an end. “We’ve just come to fetch them. They’re in the library—we won’t disturb you.”

Charles hid a grin at her phrasing; she’d already disturbed Nicholas greatly, no matter he concealed it well.

“Maps?” Nicholas hesitated, then asked, “What sort of maps?”

“Of the area.” Turning, Penny led the way to the library.

As Charles had hoped, Nicholas followed.

Flinging the double doors of the library wide, Penny sailed through. “Papa had a wonderfully detailed set showing every little stream and inlet all along this stretch of coast. Invaluable if one wishes to scout the area thoroughly.”

She made for a bookcase at the end of the long room. “They were somewhere around here, I believe.”

Nicholas watched as she crouched, studying the large folios housed on the bottommost shelf. Hanging back, Charles studied his face; Nicholas was reasonably skilled in hiding his thoughts, but rather less adept at hiding his reactions. His pale features, clean-cut and patrician, remained studiously expressionless, yet his eyes, and his hands, were more revealing.

His fingers plucked restlessly at his watch chain as, a frown in his eyes, he tried to decide what to do.

In the end, he glanced at Charles. “I take it there’s evidence the smugglers in this area were involved in passing secrets?”

Charles smiled one of his predatory smiles. “Finding the evidence is what I’ve been sent here to do, so we can follow it back to the traitor involved.”

Was it his imagination, or did Nicholas’s pale face grow a touch paler?

Looking down, Nicholas frowned. “If there’s no real evidence…well, isn’t it likely you’re simply chasing hares?”

His grin grew intent. “Whitehall expects its minions to be thorough.” He glanced at one of the two six-foot-long display cases flanking the library’s central carpet. “If after I’ve shaken every tree and turned every stone, no substantiating evidence is forthcoming, then doubtless it’ll be concluded that there was no truth in the information received.”

“Here they are.” Penny pulled a thick folio from the shelf; cradling it in her arms, she rose and went to the desk.

Laying the heavy tome down, she opened it. Nicholas went to look; Charles followed.

“See?” With one finger, Penny traced the fine lines of the highly detailed hand-drawn maps. “These show every little inlet along the estuary and the nearby coast.” She looked up at him, transparently delighted at having found such a valuable tool to aid him. “With these, you can be certain you’re not missing any of the landing places.”

“Excellent.” Reaching out, he turned the book his way, then shut it and picked it up. “Thank you—these will indeed help enormously.”

Nicholas’s lips had set in a thin line; Charles could easily imagine his chagrin. For a nonlocal seeking to learn about the local smugglers, the maps would be a godsend. Nicholas had had access to them, but hadn’t known. He now had to watch as Charles, of all people, tucked the tome under his arm.

Looking at Penny, with his head he indicated the display case he’d glanced at earlier. “Your father’s collection seems just the same as I remember it as a child. I’m surprised he never added to it.”

Penny met his eyes briefly, played to his lead. “I’m not sure why he stopped collecting.” Rounding the desk, she glanced at both cases. “But you’re right—it’s been, well, decades since he last bought a new one.”

Sweeping up to one case, she trailed her fingers across the glass, studying the pillboxes laid neatly on white satin with small cards engraved in her father’s precise hand describing each one.

Charles came up beside her. “Perhaps he grew bored with pillboxes.”

Nicholas was watching, listening to every word, every inflection, his intensely focused attention the equivalent of a red flag waving in Charles’s face. Any notion Nicholas wasn’t deeply involved in whatever scheme had been operating was untenable. He had been involved, and was now intent on ensuring Charles did not find the evidence he was seeking.

“Perhaps.” Penny shrugged, then turned to Nicholas. “Now we’ve found the maps, we won’t disturb you further, Nicholas.”

Nicholas blinked, then seemed to shake himself. “Why—ah, surely you’ll stay for tea. Take some refreshment?”

“No, no!” Penny waved aside the invitation. “Thank you, but no. By the time we ride back to the Abbey it’ll be time for luncheon.”

She glanced at Charles, a question in her eyes. He smiled approvingly, adding just a hint of wicked anticipation—enough, he hoped, to prick Nicholas.

From the way Nicholas’s jaw set, he succeeded.

Nicholas rather stiffly took his leave of them. Together, they left the house.

It was indeed time for luncheon when they clattered back into the Abbey stable yard. Charles’s grooms came running. Penny slid from her saddle without waiting to be lifted down; handing the reins to a groom, she joined Charles, and they started across the gently rising lawn toward the house.

“That went well!” Head up, she savored the exhilaration still singing through her veins. They hadn’t talked on their journey home, just exchanged triumphant smiles, and ridden, laughing, before the wind.

“We’ve certainly given Nicholas a few things to think about.” The book of maps under his arm, Charles paced beside her.

“He was put out about the maps—and your questions about the pillboxes were inspired. He was hanging on every word.”

“With luck, he’ll accept that you—and thus I—have no knowledge of the pillboxes hidden in the priest hole.”

She frowned. “Why didn’t you want him knowing we knew?”

“Because they’re the proof—the irrefutable evidence—that some presently inexplicable but clandestine relationship has existed between the French and your family’s menfolk for decades. I’d rather they remained where they are, accessible should we need them.”

She glanced at him. “Decades?”

He met her eyes, baldly reiterated, “Decades. You counted the boxes—how many were there?”

“Sixty-four.”

“If we assume every piece of information was paid for with a pillbox, and I checked—most are the work of French jewelers—then given the rate at which sufficiently valuable information would crop up to be passed, it would take something like thirty years to amass sixty-four boxes.”

“Oh.” The knowledge cast a pall on the day, leaving her feeling as if clouds had covered the sun.

“Do you still want to help me?”

She looked up to see Charles regarding her, understanding very clear in his midnight eyes. She stared into them for a moment, then looked ahead. “Yes. I have to.”

She didn’t need to explain. He nodded, and they walked on, passing beneath the spreading branches of the huge oaks bordering the south lawn, the side door their goal.

Despite the confirmation that it wasn’t only Granville but her father, too, who’d been involved in the traitorous scheme, she still felt curiously buoyed by their success, minor though it had been.

That morning, for the first time in she couldn’t remember when, she’d shared fears and concerns with someone she trusted, someone who understood. Just being able to air such thoughts had been a catharsis in itself.

As for her specific concern, while the problem hadn’t gone away, its weight had lessened, lifted in part from her shoulders—truly shared. She now felt immeasurably more confident that whatever the truth was, Elaine, her half sisters, and she would be safe. Shielded as far as it was possible to be.

Whatever was going on would be properly and appropriately dealt with; actively contributing to that end would help soothe her lacerated family pride.

Forty hours before, she’d been lost and uncertain; now she felt confident, all because she’d joined forces with Charles.

She glanced at him.

He caught her gaze. Arched a brow. “What?”

She was tempted to look away; instead, she held his gaze as she said, “It seems I made the right choice in confiding in you.”

Three heartbeats passed; he didn’t release her gaze.

Then he caught her hand, halted, waited until she did the same, then smoothly drew her to him.

All the way to him. He bent his head and kissed her.

She hadn’t been expecting it—her lungs locked, her senses froze, her very heart seemed to stop…but he’d kissed her before. Even starved of breath and with her senses reeling, she recognized the feel of his lips against hers.

Clung to the sensation. Found memories pouring in. Found reassurance in the familiar, no matter that it had been years.

She found herself drifting on a familiar tide, one of subtle warmth, simple pleasure, gentle waves of delight.

Then…something changed.

He shifted closer, angled his head, and what had started as a simple exchange became more—much more. More complex, more complicated, infinitely more absorbing. His lips moved on hers, compelling, hungry but not ravenous, not frightening in any way. He supped, sipped, as if needing to explore her lips again, needing to taste them. He’d always excelled at kissing, but now…it seemed as if he felt the leaping of her heart, felt and understood the sudden upwelling of yearning that, entirely unbidden, totally against her will, filled her soul.

She kissed him back—raised her free hand to his shoulder and pressed her lips to his. She hadn’t meant to, yet was incapable of denying not him but herself. It had been a long time since she’d kissed any man, but it wasn’t only that that impelled her to want and take what he offered.

Just a kiss, or so it seemed. No reason not to part her lips and invite him in, as she had so long ago…

He accepted, not as if he took her offer for granted, yet not as if he’d forgotten their past either. The languid surge of his tongue against hers made her bones melt. What followed demonstrated beyond all doubt that he’d learned volumes in the years since they’d last indulged, acquired skills and talents far beyond those he’d had.

Lips, tongues, and hot, wet pleasure; her starved senses whirled, giddily luxuriating as she savored the long-forgotten delight. Let him and the moment be reason enough.

When he lifted his head with a reluctance she knew wasn’t feigned—a reluctance echoed in her veins—she was breathless, her heart thudding in her throat, one hand still locked in his, the other fisted in his lapel as she leaned close to boneless against him.

Just a kiss, and he could still reduce her to that nearly swooning state where nothing in the world seemed to matter—just them, and what they made each other feel.

She drew a shaky breath, blinked up at him. “Why did you do that?”

His midnight gaze roamed her face, then settled on her eyes. He studied them before replying, “Because I wanted to. Because I’ve been wanting to since the first moment I saw you again.”

She searched his eyes; he wasn’t lying, prevaricating, or evading. His simple words were the simple truth.

Clearing her throat, she eased back. Conscious of the whirlpool of potent sensuality that lurked beneath his surface, and hers, too. That had always been her problem with him; the desire that burned so readily between them had never been his alone. She drew in another breath, felt her wits steady. “That wasn’t very wise.”

His shoulders lifted in a Gallic shrug. He let her step away, but retained his hold on her hand; he caught her gaze. “When were we ever wise?”

A valid point, one she wasn’t about to attempt to answer.

When she said nothing more, he turned her, and they walked on to the house, her father’s book of maps under his arm, her hand still locked in his.

I
MMEDIATELY AFTER LUNCH WAS OVER
, C
HARLES INVOKED
the specter of estate business and took refuge in his study.
He
was the one who now needed time to think.

His steward, Matthews, had left various documents prominently displayed on his desk; he forced himself to attend to the most urgent, but left all the rest. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the volume of maps he’d carried in. Abruptly, he swiveled the chair so its back was to the desk, and he was facing the window and the undemanding view.

He had to find his mental footing, determine where he was and where he wanted to be—and then work out how to get there. Not, as he’d supposed, solely in terms of his investigation, but, it now seemed, with his personal quest, too.

He’d arrived at the Abbey three days ago with two goals before him, both needing to be urgently addressed—one professional goal, his investigation, and his personal goal, his search for a wife. It had been unsettling to discover that his way forward with
both
involved Penny.

Of all the potential ladies in the ton, he hadn’t considered her, because he hadn’t believed
she
would consider
him
. He’d always known that she
could
be his wife, that she could fill all aspects of the position without effort—
if
she would. He hadn’t imagined after the way they’d parted thirteen years ago that she might, but after kissing her an hour ago, he now knew beyond question that the possibility was there, and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance of turning that possibility into reality.

Possibility. He wouldn’t, yet, rate it as more. From the moment he’d stepped close to her in the upstairs corridor at midnight, he’d been aware of her response to him, that it was as it had been all those years ago—intense, immediate, always there. Over the past days, he’d known every time her senses had flared; he wasn’t sure she knew how acutely his senses spiked at her reaction, how sensually attuned to her he was.

Yet none knew better than he and she that that connection wasn’t, of itself, enough. It hadn’t been years ago; he doubted it would be now.

He needed to build on it, to pursue it and her, explore what lay between them, what might evolve from that, and where it might lead them.

In between pursuing his investigation.

That wasn’t very wise.
Indeed. She remained his most direct link to the Selbornes’ scheme; he now had to deal with her on two different levels simultaneously, juggling the investigation and his personal pursuit of her.

Yet he couldn’t regret kissing her; he’d had to learn whether the possibility was there. He’d been tempted to kiss her in the courtyard at Wallingham, but it hadn’t been the right time or place. He’d pulled back, but when on their way from the stables she’d smiled at him and acknowledged she’d been right to trust him with her family’s secret, he’d been buoyed and encouraged enough to seize the moment, to learn if she would trust him in that other sphere, too. Whether there was a chance he could mend their fences even if he wasn’t sure what had flattened them in the first place.

Such uncertainty, unfortunately, was his norm with her. He was an expert with women; he’d studied them for years, understood their minds, and was adept at managing them—all except Penny. She…he was never sure how to deal with her, had never succeeded in managing her, and had long ago given up attempting to manipulate her—the result had never been worth the price. For one of his ilk, such complete and utter failure with a woman was hard to stomach, and somewhat unnerving; he was always alert and watchful with her.

But that kiss had answered his question. Not only had she allowed him to kiss her, she’d enjoyed it and kissed him back, deliberately and considerably prolonging the interlude.

Well and good. He’d cleared the first hurdle, but he knew her too well to presume too much. All he’d gained was a chance to progress to the next stage, to determine how real the possibility that she might consent to be his wife was, how real his chance to convert wish into fact.

He sat staring unseeing out of the window while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked on; eventually, its chiming drew him back, reminding him of the other challenge requiring his attention.

Swinging back to his desk, he turned his mind to his mission. There, at least, the way forward was clear. The information Caudel, an exposed villain, had divulged before he’d died seemed in essence correct; it was now up to him, Charles, to ferret out the details and hand them over to Dalziel. He was very good at ferreting; one way or another, he’d get to the bottom of the Selbornes’ scheme.

First things first. Reaching for the book of maps, he set it on his blotter and opened it.

Penny wandered the gardens, thinking, to her considerable distraction reliving those minutes on the lawn under the trees. Those minutes she’d spent in Charles’s arms. She could still feel his lips on hers, still feel the effects of the kiss; it had definitely not been a wise indulgence.

On the other hand, it had been fated to happen; that elemental attraction she recognized from long ago had been steadily building over the past days and would inevitably have led to the same culmination, somewhere, sometime. He’d been right to choose an unthreatening setting. Now he’d kissed her and his curiosity—if she was truthful
both
their curiosities—had been appeased and satisfied, presumably that would be the end of it.

She paused, frowning at a rosebush. It wouldn’t, of course, be the end of her susceptibility—that, she’d realized, was an affliction for life—but presumably they could now put their mutual attraction behind them, ignore it, or at least accord it no importance. That undoubtedly was the best way forward; that was what she would do.

His investigation had only just commenced; as she intended to be beside him throughout, getting that kiss out of the way had been a good thing.

She returned to the parlor. When Charles didn’t reappear, she muttered an oath, then rang for tea; when Filchett entered with the tray, she told him to follow her and headed for the study. She knocked once, barely waited for Charles’s “Come” before opening the door and walking in. “It’s time for tea.”

He looked up, met her gaze, paused as if considering his response.

Blithely waving Filchett to the desk, she sat in one of the chairs before it. She heard Charles’s half-stifled sigh as he set down his pen and shut her father’s book to make room for the tray.

He’d been composing some list; that much she’d seen. She waited until Filchett withdrew. Sitting forward, she picked up the pot and poured. “What have you decided?”

If he thought she was going to let him deal her out of this game, he was mistaken. Lifting her cup from the tray, she sat back.

He looked at her, then picked up his cup and saucer. “My ex-commander’s focus is on identifying who in the ministry handed your father and Granville the information we’re assuming they traded for the pillboxes. Making a case against your father or Granville won’t interest him; not only are they dead, but they’re also clearly not the prime instigators of the scheme. Your father never had access to government secrets; he remained in the country most of his life—no self-respecting French agent would have even considered approaching him.”

“You think Amberly was the instigator.”

He sipped his tea, nodded. “Originally, yes. You said your father started collecting pillboxes while staying with Amberly in Paris. However, Amberly retired seven years ago, and the passage of information continued until recently.”

“So the baton, as it were, was passed from father to son, both in Amberly’s case as well as Papa’s?”

“It fits. Especially with dear Nicholas hot-footing it down here just as I appear on the scene.”

She frowned. “Could he have heard you were coming to investigate?”

“It’s possible.” He set down his cup. “While Dalziel takes these matters seriously, not everyone in the ministries is so inclined. Many think that now the war is over, secrecy isn’t an issue anymore.”

“Hmm…” After a moment, she refocused on his face. “So what now?”

“Now…even though the pillboxes’ existence confirms that some traffic, presumably in secrets, occurred with the French, they don’t implicate Nicholas or Amberly, no matter that Nicholas clearly knows of them. I need evidence that specifically ties Amberly or Nicholas to the traffic of Foreign Office secrets—how I’m to get that is what I’m presently wrestling with.”

She glanced pointedly at his list. “You’ve decided on something.”

He hesitated, then reluctantly said, “I’ve contacts of my own with the local smuggling gangs—as you so perspicaciously noticed, I’ve used them on and off over the years.” Picking up his pen, he toyed with it. “I can see two reasons for Nicholas behaving as he is—either he’s trying to ensure that Granville’s and therefore his tracks remain covered, or, just possibly, he believes there might be some new contact made, or at least some reason he might again need to use the smugglers as a conduit to the French. Either way, he’s out there asking questions.” His lips curved, not in a smile. “I’m considering whether I should arrange for him to receive some answers.”

“Such as what?”

“I won’t know until I get a better idea of what he’s been asking. Is he really setting himself up as Granville’s active replacement, or is he merely trawling to learn which group Granville used for running the secrets so he’ll know who has to be kept quiet?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t heard enough to say.” Leaning forward, setting her elbow on the desk, she propped her chin in her hand.

Charles watched her face as she thought, watched her thoughts flow through her expressive eyes.

“Given we’re certain Granville and Nicholas were in this hand in glove, wouldn’t Granville have told Nicholas which group he used?”

He shook his head. “Secrecy is a byword among the fraternity. Granville played at being a smuggler for a good many years; he would have absorbed that lesson well. Unless there was some exceptionally strong reason—and I can’t see what it might be—I seriously doubt telling Amberly or Nicholas who his smuggling friends were would have entered Granville’s head.”

She grimaced. “That sounds right. He was as close as a clam over anything to do with smuggling.” Her gaze dropped to his list. “So what have you written there?”

He had to smile, even though the message she was sending his way—that she wasn’t going to let him pat her on the head and tell her to go and embroider—wasn’t one he was happy about. “It’s a list of the gangs that might have been involved. I’ll need to contact them myself. They’ll hear soon enough why I’m here—I need to make clear that neither I nor the government has any interest in them but only in what they can tell me.”

“What if you run into Nicholas?”

“I won’t. You said he visited Polruan two nights ago—I’ll start there.”

“When? Tonight?”

No point trying to prevaricate. “I’ll ride down after dinner. If they ran goods last night, they should be in the Duck and Drake this evening.”

She nodded; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Tell me about Amberly—how frequently did your father and he meet?”

She thought, then answered, telling him little he hadn’t already surmised. But his questions served to distract her. After ten minutes of steady inquisition, she stirred. “I’ll take the tray—I want to speak to Mrs. Slattery.”

He rose and held the door for her. She departed with the air of a lady with her mind on domestic concerns. Closing the door, he paused, then returned to his desk and his plans.

They met again over dinner; he came prepared with a stock of friendly familial inquiries designed to keep her mind far away from his evening appointment in Polruan. In that, he thought he succeeded; when they rose from the table, she retired for the evening, electing to go straight to her chamber. She didn’t even mention his planned excursion; he wondered if it had slipped her mind.

He returned to his study to read through the report he’d penned for Dalziel. He’d thought long and hard, but in the end he’d named names, accurately setting down all he’d learned thus far. Even more than his six collegues from the Bastion Club, he’d entrusted his life to Dalziel’s discretion for thirteen years; Dalziel had never let him down.

Even though they’d yet to solve the riddle of who exactly Dalziel was, whoever he was he was one of them—a nobleman with the same sense of honor, the same attitude toward protecting the weak and innocent. Penny and Elaine and her daughters stood in no danger from Dalziel.

Sealing the letter, he addressed it, then rose. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o’clock. Opening the study door, he called Cassius and Brutus from their sprawl before the fire; stretching, grumbling, they clambered up and obeyed.

Shutting the door, he strolled to the front hall, dropped his letter on Filchett’s salver on the sideboard, then went upstairs, the hounds at his heels.

Ten minutes later, dressed to ride, he opened the garden door, stepped outside, softly closed the door, and turned for the stables.

He’d taken three strides before the shadow glimpsed at the edge of his vision registered. He halted, swore softly, then, hands rising to his hips, swung around to face Penny. Clad once more in breeches, boots, and riding jacket, with a soft-brimmed hat cocked over her brow, she’d been leaning against the wall a yard from the door—waiting.

So much for his successful distraction.

He set his jaw. “You can’t come.”

The moon sailed free tonight; she met his eyes. “Why not?”

“You’re a lady. Ladies don’t frequent the Duck and Drake.”

She straightened from the wall, shrugged. “You’ll be there—I’ll be perfectly safe.”

He watched her tug on her gloves. “I’m not taking you with me.”

Lifting her head, she looked at him. “I’ll follow you, then.”

With an exasperated hiss, he dropped his head back and looked up into a nearly cloudless sky. She knew the area almost as well as he did; with the moon shining down, she could follow him easily, and in any case she knew his destination—because he’d been idiot enough to tell her!