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Authors: What A Woman Needs

BOOK: Caroline Linden
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“He didn’t say anything?” Charlotte pressed.
“Not a word.”
“Did he smell strange? Were his clothes unusual?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you. What with his knife at my throat, I didn’t take as much note as I might have otherwise.”
“But you must have noticed something,” she said urgently. “You’re the only person who’s ever seen him, and if you can’t—” She stopped as his head snapped up.
“He’s broken in before?”
Charlotte tugged the cloak around her, regretting asking him anything. She should have known he would be too preoccupied with saving himself to notice anything helpful. “A few other times.”
“Why?” Now he was staring at her.
Charlotte scowled. “I don’t know. He searches, but never takes anything, as far as I can tell.”
“What has the magistrate done?”
Her mouth tightened. “Nothing was ever taken. Many times there was no proof anyone had been in the house. My servants aren’t attentive; they leave doors and windows open without a thought. What would a magistrate tell me?”
“Then why don’t you have men guarding the house?”
Now it felt rather stupid to tell him she hadn’t felt threatened, as he had firsthand knowledge of the fellow’s knife. “I didn’t think it would do any good.”
“It could hardly do any harm. He had a knife. What if you or your niece should come upon him next time?”
Charlotte didn’t need to hear any more condemnation of her fitness as Susan’s guardian. She was perfectly aware of her deficiencies in that regard. “I’ll consider it. Take care they don’t catch
you
next time.”
He gave a short, caustic laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t be back. Shall we go, or are you staying the night?” He twirled her battered hat around his finger. Charlotte strode across the room and snatched it from him, jamming it on her head.
“Just a moment,” he sighed, stopping her when she would have opened the door. He lifted the hat from her head, and plunged his hands into her tangled curls. He combed his fingers quickly through her hair, and with a few quick twists, looped it up atop her head, and then pulled the hat firmly over the mass. “There,” he said, opening the door and waving her through.
He walked her home quickly, just about as fast as she could walk without running. Trotting along beside him, Charlotte felt terribly awkward. She still despised him—she told herself so with every other step—but some odd sort of bond had been forged between them tonight. A bond of lust is not a good thing, she reminded herself, trying not to consider the way he had handed her necklace back without a word, or the way he had run his hands through her hair before hiding it under her hat.
Stuart Drake was a puzzle. On one hand, he was an admitted fortune hunter, after Susan only for her money. The rumors of his behavior in London were truly appalling, and he had broken into her house and stolen her necklace. Those facts alone should render him abhorrent to her. But on the other hand, he could have treated her so much worse tonight than he had. She had been completely at his mercy, and he could have had her arrested, or beaten her soundly, if not done something even worse. And though he had tied her down on the bed, he had kept his word and not touched her. Aside from chafed wrists and seriously wounded pride, she had ended up much as she had started off this evening.
Almost, anyway
, Charlotte corrected with a frown. She didn’t know how she could ever face him in the light of day now. It was almost as awkward as if she had actually gone to bed with him. Charlotte never knew what to say to her lovers in the morning, even though those relationships had all been well-defined at the beginning, unlike this one. It wasn’t even a relationship, she thought in disgust. He had only forced her to admit she was attracted to him. Which might have been the basis for an affair at one point in her life, but no longer; Charlotte was determined to be a respectable woman now that she had Susan.
“Tell your servants they are to check every door and window before they go to bed,” he said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. “Threaten to sack them without a reference if you find any overlooked. Tell the butler it’s his job to inspect the house at night, and make sure he does it. Tunbridge Wells isn’t the fashionable place it used to be, and anyone who loses a position now will be hard pressed to find another soon.”
“I’ve already told them that,” she began, but he shook his head, still walking, eyes straight ahead.
“They’ve been lax. I got in through an unlocked window. It’s possible one of them is in league with the thief, and is leaving him an entry. You said there’s often no sign of intrusion?” Charlotte nodded uneasily; it had never occurred to her that one of her own servants might be allowing the thief into her house. “Then check the locks yourself every night until you’re satisfied they’re following your orders.” Across the street from her house, he stopped and turned to face her. The streetlamps cast a dim light onto one side of his face, leaving the other in deep shadow. “And summon the magistrate,” he said seriously. “The man had a knife, and he didn’t take much time to discover upon whom he was turning it. Next time it could be one of your servants, or you yourself. If I hadn’t been quite a bit larger than he, I’d have had my throat cut.”
“All right,” said Charlotte, subdued by his reasoning and by the intensity in his tone.
“Good,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll check the house from the outside, to see if anything seems amiss.” Before she could say another word, he strode across the street, his cloak swirling out behind him. Charlotte clung to the shadows, suddenly thankful he had walked her home. What if the thief were in her house again, at this moment? She would have walked in without a thought, perhaps surprising him with a knife in his hand. She pulled the cloak up around her ears, finding herself in the odd position of being grateful for another person’s interference in her life.
After what seemed like a very long time, Stuart’s tall, loose-limbed figure reemerged from her garden. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed the street toward her, unharmed. “Everything seems fine,” he said. “Perhaps the maids had some sense scared into them. You have a key?”
“I left it under the gatepost,” said Charlotte. “Just tonight,” she added as his expression darkened.
“I wouldn’t make it a habit.” He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but didn’t. There was a moment of silence. “Good night, then.”
“Good night.” Charlotte stepped into the street, paused, and turned around. “Why
did
you steal my necklace?”
He sighed. “I didn’t mean to. I apologize.”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t
mean
to? You just happened to be in my room, looking in my jewel case, and it just
happened
to find its way into your pocket? Did you think I’d believe that? You went through my
clothing
.” His mouth thinned, and he looked away. “Then why were you in my house in the first place?” Charlotte asked, reverting to a cold, mocking tone.
He remained silent for a moment. “I thought Miss Tratter had something of mine,” he said at last. “I was wrong.” He paused. “How did you know I had the necklace?”
Charlotte fumbled in her pocket for the flask. “You left this in my garden.” She threw it at his feet. He looked down at it, and let out a weary sigh. “Good night, Mr. Drake,” she said coolly.
“Good bye, Contessa,” he replied, head still bowed.
Charlotte turned on her heel and left. She retrieved her key from its hiding place and let herself in without looking back. Only when she had bolted the door behind her and hurried up the stairs to her room did she realize she was still wearing his cloak. She debated tossing it out the window to him, then decided she would simply send it back tomorrow. It would be an invitation to disaster to seek him out again. Charlotte much preferred to keep things as they were, lodged in comfortable animosity, than risk discovering anything more that might challenge her view of him.
Out in the street, Stuart scooped up his flask and examined it ruefully. It was dented, just like his pride. Trust a woman to tie him in knots and then turn up her nose at him, just to make it really hurt. For a brief, few minutes this evening, he had felt like a man with a purpose. And while Charlotte had probably discarded most of his suggestions by now, at the time she had listened as if she respected his opinion. Even though there was no good reason whatsoever for it, Stuart thought he might miss the woman; for all her faults, she appealed to him, and not just physically. Although he certainly
would
regret for a very, very long time what might have happened had Whitley and Jameson not turned up.
That was no less than he deserved, though. Breaking into her house had to be one of his worst decisions. He had been stabbed, almost caught and arrested, and accidentally stolen an emerald necklace; all that, and he hadn’t even gotten the ring he wanted. No piece of jewelry was worth any of those things, and Stuart decided he should leave well enough alone. Charlotte Griffolino had brought him nothing but trouble from the moment he laid eyes on her, and he didn’t need to invite more by going after that ring again.
He shook his head and walked home through the silent streets. Time to forget what might have been and move on to the pressing question in his life, namely, what he was going to do now. The invitations that used to flood his breakfast table had dwindled to a trickle, then stopped altogether within days of Charlotte’s visit to Lady Kildair. He had gone from an eligible, if poor, match to a pariah in a week. He had already accepted an invitation to a supper party at the Martins’ the next evening, which a prouder man would now decline to keep, but Stuart had literally spent his last farthing. If he didn’t attend the supper party, he couldn’t be sure of dinner. Since it would have to be his last night in Kent, he would go, and take his leave in style.
He might even get lucky, and she would decide to stay home.
C
HAPTER
S
IX
“Did you get it?”
Charlotte groaned and pulled the covers over her head at Lucia’s excited question. It was too early to be awake, let alone to recount her evening’s adventure. Her friend ripped the blankets from her hands and Charlotte opened her eyes to see Lucia peering down at her from barely six inches away.
“I have been on tender hooks all morning. Did you get it?”
“Tenterhooks,” corrected Charlotte.
Lucia waved her hand. “Tell me or I shall drink your
caffe
.”
Charlotte immediately sat up, reaching for the steaming cup. As soon as they had taken up residence in England, Lucia had marched into the kitchen and taught the cook how to make proper Italian coffee. If Lucia did nothing else to earn her keep, Charlotte thought as she took a long greedy sip, she could still stay, just for the
caffe
.
Lucia sat back in her chair, pulled right to the side of the bed, and waited until Charlotte lowered the cup. “Now, tell me. Was it a success?”
“I got the necklace back,” she said. “It was so easy to get in, I’m surprised he isn’t burgled nightly.”
“Yes, yes.” Lucia’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “And did you take the scissors to his trousers?”
Charlotte took another restorative drink of coffee. She had told Lucia she intended to cut strategically revealing holes in Stuart Drake’s trousers, but now she was unable to think of his trousers without remembering how he filled them out. “No.”
“Oh, what a pity.” Lucia pulled a face. “I was looking forward to the unveiling.”
“Lucia.”
“Do you know, I have been considering the matter. I do not think he is too old. You are not so very old, after all, and he seems to be a fit and virile man.”
“He’s a fortune hunter,” Charlotte reminded her. “He wants a rich bride.”
“But I am rich in experience.”
“I suspect he prefers pounds sterling.”
“Besides, I do not wish to marry him,” Lucia went on. “Only to make merry with him.” She laughed in delight at her wit.
Charlotte got out of bed, taking deep breaths as her body protested. Wrestling with Stuart had taken its toll, and she was stiff and sore. Her arms and her back ached. She thought fleetingly of the nights she had climbed out her window in her father’s house and run across the meadow to be with the man she thought she loved. Then she had stayed with him all night, only sneaking back into the house just before dawn, and somehow she had still gone about the day as if she’d gotten a full night’s rest. Now she could barely get out of bed, even though the clock indicated she’d slept several hours. She must be getting old. Either that, or the delusions of love had been stronger than any amount of
caffe
.
“With any luck, he’ll be gone soon.” Charlotte pulled on her dressing gown, her arms almost creaking out loud. She needed a hot bath, she decided, and rang for the maid.
Lucia sighed wistfully. “Ah, well. So. You were gone an eternity. I fell asleep waiting for you to return.”
“Did Susan—?”
“No.” Lucia waved her hand. “She never woke. Nor did she speak to me. I have done nothing to her, and still she turns her nose in the air to me. If she were my child, she would have a beating for her insolence.”
“Please don’t talk about beatings,” said Charlotte, lowering herself gingerly onto her dressing table chair. Her hair was a wild mess, matted curls standing up in all directions. She picked up her brush and went to work, wincing as she raised her arms over her head. “Susan is still grieving for her father as well as becoming accustomed to life with me. It’s been very hard for her.”
Lucia sniffed, but let it drop. “So you got it back. He will leave town, so you are done with him, yes?”
“Yes.” Charlotte gave up on her hair. The maid could do it.
“You are not telling me details,” scolded Lucia. “Why did you tease me with such a tale, of him ravaging your lingerie? Where did you find it? Did you ravage his unmentionables?”
“He came home early,” said Charlotte after a moment. “He caught me. We had an argument, but then ...” Heat unfurled low in her belly. “We talked.” Oh, how he had talked. “And he gave it back.”
“No! You talked?” Lucia put down her cup with a loud clink. “I almost forget you are English at times, but there is no doubt of it, if you can break into a handsome man’s bedroom and simply talk to him.”
“He didn’t want to be arrested for stealing the necklace.” The maid tapped at the door, and peeked inside at Charlotte’s summons. “Draw a bath,” Charlotte told her. “As hot as possible.”
“Was he not angry to find you there?”
“He was.” Charlotte crossed the room again and got back into bed to wait for her bath. She didn’t even hope it came quickly.
“Did he hurt you?
Cara
, he is such a big man, with such strong arms. And his hands! Do you know, his hands remind me of a Russian count I once knew, who could give a woman such pleasure ... ! His fingers were so long—”
“He saw the other burglar,” Charlotte interrupted, not wanting to hear about Lucia’s lovers or how much Stuart Drake reminded her of them. Although he did have very nice hands, now that she thought about it, long-fingered and strong; surely they could be as sure and demanding as they could be teasingly gentle ...
“The other one?” said Lucia after a pause. “I thought he was the one.”
“There was another. Mr. Drake only broke in the once, he claims, and I see no reason to doubt it. I suspect he wanted to punish me for denying him Susan and her inheritance, but he would not admit it. He ran across the other burglar in the music room, rifling through the newest crates. They fought for a moment, and then Dunstan came and both thieves fled.”
“Did he see the other man clearly? Can he describe him?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. He says not. All he could say was that it was a small fellow.” She gave Lucia a sour look. “About my size. Am I small?”
Lucia shrugged. “For a man you would be. I prefer a man to be tall. There is nothing so delicious as the weight of a large man—”
“He noticed nothing else except the man’s knife.” Charlotte didn’t know why she had grown so maidenly lately. For the three years she had known Lucia, they had always discussed men, often in ways that would have made the men blush if they had known. It had been one of the things Charlotte prized about her friend: her utter frankness and inability to be shocked. Married to Piero, Charlotte had lived surrounded by men, and Lucia was often the only female face she saw. When she had decided to return to England and Lucia had asked to visit, Charlotte had invited her immediately.
But perhaps the English side of her that had lain dormant for over a decade was reemerging now that she was in England again. Every time Lucia brought up Stuart Drake and began listing his appealing features, Charlotte tried to change the subject. She had been attracted to the wrong man before—she seemed to have a real talent for it, in fact—but he was the first one she shied away from dissecting with Lucia. And nothing on earth would make her tell Lucia what he had done last night. Hopefully Lady Kildair would accomplish her mission, and Stuart would be out of town in a matter of days. Once he was gone, she could concentrate on mending her fences with Susan and establishing her own life here in England.
“A knife?” Lucia bolted out of her chair, her voice squeaking with alarm. “A madman with a knife is loose in our house? What shall we do?”
“We shall make sure he cannot get in again,” said Charlotte. “The servants seem to have been terrified the other night, for when I came home, St—” She stopped herself from telling Lucia he had walked her home. “The doors and windows were all locked,” she finished. “And they will be, every night from now on, or I shall sack every servant until I find some who can remember to keep the house secure.”
“Did he use the knife on Mr. Drake?”
Charlotte nodded. “He sliced his hand. If Mr. Drake hadn’t been so much larger than he, the thief would have cut his throat.”
There was a long silence. Lucia sat down, uncharacteristically somber. “He wants something important.”
“But what the devil is it?” Charlotte exclaimed impatiently. “It would be so much easier if he left a note just asking for it.”
Lucia was blinking rapidly. “Do you know what is in those crates?”
“More or less. Piero’s valet packed everything. I haven’t even opened most of them.”
“Perhaps we should unpack them.” Lucia’s voice was deadly serious. “Spread everything out and see if there is something extraordinary, something a man would kill for.”
“There are three rooms full of crates, barrels, and trunks,” said Charlotte. “By all means, start unpacking. I can’t face it.”
“Why are you so reluctant? Our lives are in danger.”
Charlotte knew Lucia was right, but she still couldn’t do it. “I don’t want to see those things again,” she said vaguely. “I’ve been thinking of giving them away.”
“To a museum?”
Charlotte hesitated. “No.”
“To whom, then? They are priceless objets d’art.”
If only you knew,
Charlotte thought. Thankfully, the servants arrived with the tub then, and began filling it with steaming water. Lucia went to have a calming cigarette in the garden, and Charlotte lowered herself into the scalding bath for a long soak. Perhaps she should hire some more men to guard the house; they might even catch the thief. She was sure there was nothing worth stealing in the crates, but the knife worried her. Once the thief had satisfied himself the crates held nothing, he might come upstairs and take out his frustration on her, or on Susan or Lucia. Charlotte had thought Kent would be a perfectly safe, dull place for three women to live alone, but it seemed she was wrong.
Well. She would give it another day’s thought. If there were signs that the thief tried to get in while the house was locked tight, she would hire the guards. In the meantime, she had promised to take Susan shopping, and Charlotte intended to keep her promise. Although her niece had been somewhat sullen yesterday after breakfast, the trip to get the yellow dress had cheered her, and she had been almost cordial at dinner. Today Charlotte planned to take her to get shoes to match the dress. And if two women couldn’t get along while shopping for shoes, when could they?
 
 
Stuart knew he was making his hostess uncomfortable. Cordelia Martin’s eyes had almost popped from her head when he made his appearance, although she recovered in time to greet him. She had invited him, and he had accepted; it wasn’t her fault he had fallen so low, but then again, it wasn’t really his fault, either.
He found Jameson quickly. Although he didn’t want anyone to think he was slinking away like a dog with its tail between its legs, he also didn’t want to get thrown out. More than one back was turned in his direction as he made his way through the room. Jameson grinned when he saw him.
“Drake, old fellow! Simply capital to see you tonight.”
“Snuff it,” he advised his friend, taking a glass of wine from a passing footman. “This is my farewell to Kent. I’d rather not end it lying facedown in the street.”
“Don’t say you’re abandoning the field!” Jameson shook his head with a soft tsk. “Thought you had more backbone than that.”
“It’s not backbone I lack right now.”
“I’ll spot you a hundred,” said Jameson carelessly. “Kent would be as dull as a Lenten sermon without you.”
Stuart forced a sour smile. “Many thanks, but I try to keep my debts under a thousand.”
“Ah.” Jameson became absorbed in his own glass of wine. “Back to London, then?”
“Regrettably,” muttered Stuart, draining his glass. He lifted it significantly at a footman, and the servant hurried over to exchange his empty glass for a full one.
Jameson cleared his throat, looking around the room, anywhere but at him. “Well, best of luck.” Stuart knew it was sympathy that made Jameson uneasy. Jameson couldn’t believe a few paltry rumors had actually ruined him; stand firm, he had advised Stuart, and it will blow over. Stuart wasn’t so sure—it didn’t seem Charlotte did things by half measures—but it didn’t really matter. The mortgage on Oakwood Park was due in a month, not nearly enough time for him to find another bride. He would have to admit defeat and return to London, and do his best to worm his way back into his father’s good graces. If he began now, he might yet be able to keep his property. “Ah,” said his friend suddenly. “Your heiress has arrived. Give her one more go, why don’t you? She looks dashed pretty tonight.”
Stuart hesitated. Against his will he looked, from the corner of his eye. She was there, glorious in green with black lace. Miss Tratter was at her side, as was the tall, voluptuous Italian woman who lived with them. “I think I’ve burned my bridge with the aunt, so to speak,” he said, watching the three women greet the Martins.
“Not quite the wizened shrew you were led to expect, is she?” Jameson was watching Charlotte with interest. Stuart was trying not to, both to avoid meeting her eyes and to keep from remembering how she looked in his bed.

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