Cloaked in Danger (2 page)

“He is quite the storyteller.” Realizing she was wringing her hands, Aria opened the reticule that dangled from her wrist and reached in for something to keep her wayward appendages busy. Her left hand wrapped around the key she’d shoved in earlier.

Blast!

She hadn’t relocked the chest or returned the key.

“But you don’t need me to go on. You accompanied him for many years.”

Aria held the key tight enough to feel the imprint heating her skin. Lady Blythe’s warm, open demeanor suggested they were none the wiser, but the duke would eventually realize the chest was unlocked.

With the key missing, it would take mere seconds for him to recall Aria had been there. Alone.

And perhaps one second after that to wonder why.

“Miss Whitney?”

She forced herself to focus. “Yes?”

Lady Ashton frowned. “Am I mistaken?”

No. Yes. Would you repeat that? A dozen responses flew through Aria’s mind, but she stood there, mouth ajar with nothing to say. Her shoulders sagged. “I must beg your pardon. I am afraid my mind wandered off.”

The lady gave a gracious chuckle. “I imagine you have stories of your own to tell. How long have you been in London?”

“Almost a year, Lady—” She exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I know this is rude and I’m certain my father’s wife will faint dead away should she hear of it, but how am I supposed to address you? Is it Lady Ashton? Lady Blythe? Your Graceness?”

A musical laugh accompanied the twinkle in her eyes. “I may have to adopt Your Graceness for Ravensdale. He would hate it. And I am not yet a duchess, so Lady Ashton would be proper. Even though it still causes consternation when people recall I share a surname with my betrothed.”

“Is that...common?”

“I was previously married to my betrothed’s cousin, Thomas Ashton. But I must ask, how is it you’ve been in London a full year and only made the rounds so recently? Your father cut quite a swath on the dance floor at many balls I’ve attended, but I don’t recall seeing you. It’s made you quite the mystery. But then, your father is a bit of a phenomenon amongst the ton.”

“A phenomenon?” Aria touched her free hand to her forehead. If she claimed her headache had returned...

Blythe frowned. “Are you feeling unwell again?”

“A leftover twinge, I fear.” The key burned a hole through her palm.

“Perhaps you might like some quiet for a few moments?”

Perfect. “I think I would.”

“Upstairs, the first door on the left. You’ll have some privacy there.”

“My thanks.” She turned on her heel to head toward the door that led back to the study.

“Miss Whitney.”

Against the strong desire to flee the room, Aria turned. “Yes?”

Lady Ashton pointed in the opposite direction. “Through that door.”

Aria sent a longing glance at the door she wanted to go through and realized she’d have to find a way around. “Of course.” She pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you.”

Once the other woman turned to leave, Aria moved with purpose toward the open set of doors leading to the entryway. If this home was like others she’d visited, there would be a servant’s staircase at the opposite end of the home. Somewhere. She might have to search it out, but she’d find it.

She hurried up the stairs, made a turn into the corridor, and headed straight past the first, second and third doors on the left without stopping. Lady Ashton had been so kind, and she did not want to get caught with—

“
You’re walking right past opportunity
,
dearest.
”

The words tripped her heart, then her steps. “Papa?” She whipped around.

“Papa?”

The corridor was empty. She’d imagined the words.

A wave of grief rolled like a load-heavy cart right through her, stole the strength from her body until she had to bend over to catch her breath.

“God, it seemed so real.” If only he were here. If only he’d never left.

If only she’d gone with him.

Aria shook the sadness away. She had to focus. And his words, imagined or not, were true. Her father was an antiquarian, trained to find things impossible to find. She may not have been allowed to dig in the trenches with his team, but he had taught her plenty.

“All right, Papa. What would you do?”

He would search every possible corner of this house, without hesitation. Aria moved to the nearest door, went inside and gave it a gentle shove until she heard a soft click. The room held the essence of musk, a hint of the man who slept there.

She faced the interior and took a quick inventory—a bed, an armoire, a set of chairs by the windows. Someone’s bedchamber.

Spying candles on a table, she lit one and then opened the armoire. The scent was stronger here: men’s clothing filled the armoire to the brim. She closed the doors and walked about for any other indications of ownership.

The room was luxurious, lined in rich brocades and silks in deep jewel tones of red and blue, the masculine undertone matched in the heavy lines of the furniture. No delicate chairs in here. A hefty book sat on a nightstand next to the bed. She peeked into the dressing room and found a large array of more clothes.

The duke’s bedchamber?

Turning back to the nightstand, Aria opened the drawer. Nothing but a few pieces of paper littered the bottom.

And she was being a ninny.

Who would leave priceless antiquities in a drawer?

Or a chest. Or a study.

Or anywhere, for that matter.

And how had she not picked up more—or any—skill at the hunt?

She’d spent years traveling dry deserts, lush forests, and whatever remote area her father’s team could find their latest treasures in. She had trailed behind them, begged them to let her participate. She’d dug in the dirt and covered herself in dust at the age of six.

She needed a better plan.

No, she needed a plan, period.

She had her father’s list. She also knew that many of the treasures he had discovered had disappeared.

Basically, she had nothing.

She sank to the edge of the bed, setting the candle on the nightstand before she dropped back upon the coverlet and let out a half grunt, half wail.

“What are you doing in here?” a deep voice boomed from behind her.

She jolted in surprise and shot up to a sitting position.

A blond man stood in the doorway, near to filling it with wide shoulders.

How long had he been there?

A deep frown furrowed his brow, but Aria couldn’t tear her gaze away. Her stomach fluttered before she squashed the sensation. Who cared if he put the English popinjays to shame with those blond curls, those shoulders and—oh, praise the gods, that body. He cut a fine feather, indeed, quite dashing, a fact that did nothing to quell the deliciously improper thoughts that raced through her mind. Was he as hard all over as the lines of his jacket and the snug fit of his trousers suggested?

She sucked in a deep breath, unaware until then that she’d forgotten to breathe.

“I asked you a question.” His words were clipped. The man took a step into the room, one hand pressing the door wide open. “Why are you here?”

“I am resting,” she snapped, without a thought as to how she might explain how resting included snooping in the recently opened drawers. Had he watched her search the room?

“In the duke’s bedroom.” The frown turned into a deeper scowl. “Did he invite you?”

“Yes,” she blurted out. Well, he had suggested earlier she find a room upstairs for some quiet. It hadn’t been an invitation to rifle through his personal belongings. Minor point of distinction, one might say. “He told me to come upstairs.”

He slammed the door shut. “I never liked the blasted man to begin with.” He strode toward her. “You will leave this instant, and I will wring his wretched neck if he thinks to insult Blythe by carrying on with a mistress at their engagement party. After all he has put her through.”

Aria’s jaw dropped. “What? No, you’ve mistaken me.”

She jumped to her feet at the same moment he stopped at the edge of the bed. His hands extended, and their bodies plowed into each other. “Oof!” Her muscles clenched from the collision, and she teetered on one less-than-sturdy slipper before falling backward onto the bed.

The man scrambled to gain his balance but failed and landed atop her with a thud that stole the air from her lungs.

Aria was pinned beneath his weight. Her heart raced, and it had nothing to do with fear.

“I say, this is rather...awkward.” His gaze darted about, clearly checking for a safe place to put his hands. A lock of blond hair dipped over his forehead, and she grew oddly fidgety.

“Your name is not George, by chance?”

He stared down at her with wary eyes the same vibrant blue-green of the seas near Greece. “No.” His hands found purchase on either side of her head, and Aria had the unexpected, yet pleasant sensation of being enveloped by him.

The weight of his body against hers was unlike anything she’d ever felt, all at once hard and soft. His scent, citrus and spice, filled the air; his face loomed inches from hers, and every inch of him pressed her deeper into the cool silk coverlet underneath. She wanted to stroke his chest, feel the swell and ebb of his muscles. Tug on his hair to find out if it really was as silky as it seemed.

And his lips. Were they as soft as they looked?

She leaned a little closer. He did the same. Her breath hitched as she held herself inches away, waiting... savoring the delicious sensations in her core.

But he thought she was the duke’s mistress. And well, now, possibly George’s.

Had she gone daft?

She pushed her hands against his chest, shoved him off, and scrambled over the bed until she reached the other side. “Go away. I am not what you think I am.”

He shifted to sit on the bed. “The duke sent you to his bedroom. It is rather self-explanatory.”

“And you thought to take his place?”

“What? No! Where on earth would you—” He glanced to the spot where he’d fallen on top of her. “I was not accosting you! I tripped. You were the one lying on the bed.”

“I am not his mistress!” She quickly stood up. “I met the duke with his fiancée downstairs, and they sent me upstairs to find a room to rest. I had a headache.” She crossed her arms. “That is
all
.”

“Fine. I’ll have a discussion with Ravensdale, and he can confirm your story.”

“Yes, that is a perfect plan. Be sure to let him know you and I were in here together. Alone.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Behind closed doors.”

“Convenient for you. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“Then I shall leave you here to ponder the situation.” She turned to go.

“Not bloody likely.”

Chapter Two

“I beg your pardon?” The woman on the other side of the bed had the gall to look affronted, whether by his word choices or his accusations, he had no idea. Yet she was the one caught in the act.

But if she was not here to meet with his sister’s fiancé, then everything that had occurred could prove very bad for him, indeed. Good god, he’d almost kissed her. That moment when she’d held her breath, leaned in, he’d known what she was offering, and every fiber of his being wanted to take it.

What if she claimed he’d ruined her? The chances of the situation getting out of hand grew greater by the minute, but he needed answers.

“I am leaving,” she said, “and we cannot be seen leaving this room together. Therefore, you must remain.”

“I want to know what you were doing in here, if you weren’t meeting Ravensdale.”

She ignored him and shoved her hand into a reticule he hadn’t noticed. She searched inside, then shifted to the bed, scanning the surface.

“Did you lose something?”

“No, I...I—” She stopped. “I am feeling a little overwhelmed. Would you mind terribly giving me a few moments to compose myself? I fear I might be pushed into talking about this incident.” The threat was wrapped in a polite, feminine tone, but it remained a threat nonetheless.

“Perhaps I can help you find what you lost?” He didn’t buy her missish act for a moment.

She opened her mouth, then shut it. A wave of annoyance crossed her sun-kissed features. “Really, I only need one moment of privacy.”

“Please, allow me to help—ah.” He retrieved a key from the coverlet. He held it up by the ornate circular design at the top and watched her full lips part in a curse. “Such language.”

Resentment flashed and she stalked around the bed until she stood toe-to-toe with him. “Give me that.”

She reached out, and he snatched his hand back, closing his fingers over the cool metal. “This is yours? Or did you find it in here?”

“It was on my person, was it not? Therefore it must belong to me,” she replied. “I want it back. And I want out of this room.”

“What is it?” He studied it.

“A necklace.”

“That you are not wearing.” Suddenly it occurred to him that if she was Ravensdale’s mistress, she probably wouldn’t say so. “Who are you?” She could walk out of here, and he’d never see her again.

A small twinge of anxiety pinched his stomach. He needed to know her name. “I shall ask Lady Ashton if I must—”

“Why are you so concerned with Lady Ashton? It is a bit unseemly. She is betrothed.”

“Forgive my lack of manners. Lord Merewood, at your service. Lady Ashton’s brother.”

Her movements stilled. “The Earl of Merewood.”

“Yes.”

“Miss Ariadne Whitney.” She said the word slowly, the end of her name clipped with a question, as if she expected him to answer.

“A relation of Gideon Whitney?”

“He is my father.”

“A fascinating man.” He studied her curiously. “Is he here tonight? I should like to speak with him.”

“Regarding?” Her body stilled like a frightened deer.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with.”

“I am concerned with everything when it comes to my father.”

At the fervent reply, he studied her inscrutable expression. Something was amiss. “Is he here?”

“No. If you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of some air.” She twirled about, the folds of her dark blue skirt barely brushing his leg, and headed toward the door.

“Miss Whitney.”

She turned her head.

“Don’t you want this?” He held the key aloft.

She shifted toward him, sharply focused, her body tense with the uncertainty of a wary alley cat. She extended her hand slowly.

And an unwelcome longing roared through him.

“The key, Lord Merewood?”

He placed it in her hand, and their gazes fused for a moment so brief he could have imagined it.

Without a by-your-leave or a thank you, she turned. Once at the door, Miss Whitney cracked it open a smidge, peeked outside, and then hurried into the corridor. Adam moved to follow suit, certain he could smell the scent of jasmine in her wake.

He could not help being intrigued. That was all this...unsettledness meant. She was exotic and different from the English roses he had known his entire life-—with their milk-water skin, demurely lowered heads and giggles behind fans.

This woman met you with her head held high. Eyes of a deep, dark chocolate sparkled with annoyance. Her skin had been generously kissed by the sun, and the jet-black hair kinked into curls and waves was barely contained in the style fashionable these days.

Did those curls feel soft?

Leave it alone
,
man.
You have responsibilities.

He grimaced, waited a moment, then followed her. He couldn’t allow distractions, and she provided quite the distraction.

Not that it mattered.

Miss Whitney could hold the key to everlasting life, and Adam would stay far away.

But first, he would find out what she wanted with his sister’s fiancé.

* * *

After a few hours watching Miss Whitney, he was irritated enough to corner his sister.

He had told himself repeatedly that he didn’t give a whit if she danced with the entire room. He simply wanted answers.

“What do you know about her?”

Blythe blinked. “About whom precisely?”

“Miss Whitney.” Adam inclined his head in her direction, where she stood talking with Lord Melrose.

“I heard you’ve been watching her tonight.”

“How would you hear that?”

“I hear everything pertaining to my unmarried, attractive and titled brother. Your every move is noted.”

“How unappealing.”

Blythe laughed. “You are a prized catch, more so since I snatched a duke off the market. And the thought that you have your eye on someone who isn’t of ‘proper breeding’ is catastrophic to most of the girls here. And their mothers.” She did a quick scan of the room, studied the girl in question. “Are you interested? In Miss Whitney?”

“No.”

“If you wished me to believe that, you might have tried thinking about it first.” Blythe smirked. “What do you wish to know?”

He casually adjusted his stance until he could see the girl, who had moved to the dance floor with what had to be her fifteenth partner of the evening. “What do you know of her?”

“Very little, in fact. This evening is the first I’ve met her.”

“Where?” he asked.

“She was in Michael’s study resting. A headache, I believe.”

“Alone?”

“She was alone when we arrived. Why do you ask?”

“Who was with you? Ravensdale?”

“Yes, he was with me. Adam, why do I feel like I’m being interrogated?”

Adam realized his fists were clenched, and he spread his fingers out wide. “I am trying to understand how you met her, that’s all.”

Blythe let out an irritated sigh. “Michael and I went to the study for some privacy, if you want the full details. We were—”

“Stop.” He held a hand up. “I understand. And it’s not something I wish to think of. Ever.”

Her shoulders shook with mirth. “You do realize I’m getting married, Adam. Married couples do—”

“You say these things to torture me. You’re my sister. Have mercy, please. Does Ravensdale know her?”

“Not until this evening, I believe. Why?”

He could tell Blythe where he’d found Miss Whitney, what he suspected, but if he was wrong...well, he didn’t want to hurt his sister unnecessarily. If the man was a cad and Miss Whitney was involved with him, Adam would find out. In the meantime... “No reason. Just making conversation.”

She sighed. “Somehow, this is about you not trusting Michael, isn’t it?”

“I don’t have to like the man.”

“No, but you could do a better job of pretending.”

He doubted he’d ever get past his dislike for Ravensdale. Blythe had forgiven her betrothed’s past transgressions, but Adam wasn’t required to extend the same courtesy.

Not after all she’d been through—so much of which could be laid on Adam’s shoulders. His list of regrets was long and he wasn’t about to compound it.

Especially when someone like Miss Whitney stirred his...well, no need to focus on what she had stirred earlier. Better to focus on what she wanted instead.

“Now, about Miss Whitney,” Blythe said with a grin.

The woman in question whirled on the dance floor a few feet away with—another man? The woman was cutting quite a swath through London’s finest.

“Why would you invite someone to your party you know nothing about?” Adam asked.

Miss Whitney was forceful on the dance floor, her steps surefooted and confident, even when she stumbled more than once. The poor fop she danced with likely wasn’t sure who was leading whom.

“Michael is acquainted with her father,” Blythe replied. “Until recently Miss Whitney has never attended an event. But now that she’s here, she’ll be beset by impoverished lords and gentry alike, I imagine.”

“Why?”
Look somewhere else
,
man.
He was here to gather information, not ogle like a commoner.

“Her father is richer than most of the men here combined. With no title in the family, she is not above reach for anyone.”

“That is why she’s here? Husband hunting?” The idea alternately alarmed and disappointed him.

“So say the rumors, but whether it’s true or not?” She arched her brows and cocked her head, a clear sign he was about to be blatantly manipulated. “Perhaps you should dance with her and find out.”

“I am not interested in a wife right now.”

“Adam, truly.” She shook her head in disgust. “You must get past this silly notion that you cannot marry until—”

“Your first husband almost killed you, Blythe.” Adam kept his voice low, but the memory lived like a permanent scar on his heart. The gunshot. The blood. Blythe falling to the floor.

The secret his family had been protecting since that day. They’d had enough scandal in their lives.

Blythe opened her mouth to object, but he held his palm up to still her words.

“We should not be discussing this now. And I won’t make the same mistake with our other sisters.” Or with Blythe’s second choice for a husband, love match be damned. He searched out their other sister, the only one old enough to attend, and found her talking amongst a group of people her age. “Cordelia will have my full attention. So will Lily in her debut next year.”

“And Georgiana? Will you put your life on hold until she is married, as well?”

He didn’t see the point in answering.

“Good heavens, she is twelve years old.”

At her exasperated tone, the same one that had started many sibling arguments, Adam steeled his jaw. “Nonetheless, that is the way it shall be.”

“You are impossible.” She raised her hands up in a surrender he wasn’t fooled would be anything but temporary. She turned to leave, then stopped. “I hope I am there on the day you realize life won’t abide by your dictates or plans.” She clucked in irritation and walked away.

He should follow suit and leave for the night. Instead he scanned the room.

She proved easy to spot. Her dark blue gown stood out in a sea of pale chiffon, but it was more how she held herself apart that drew his attention. The shuttered blankness on her beautiful face might fool plenty, but Adam was well acquainted with the storm that brewed behind a face like that.

Desperation. Anger.

Secrets.

So what was she hiding?

Perhaps Blythe was correct and Miss Whitney was hunting for a title. Trapping Ravensdale into marriage would make her a duchess.

While he might rejoice at the thought of Ravensdale not joining his family, he would not let anyone else, including Miss Whitney, hurt them again.