Elusive Passion (4 page)

That surprised him. Most women he knew would have been too hysterical to remember anything. “You actually remember the size of the marks?”

“It’s not the kind of thing one forgets.”

If abducting him at gunpoint had cast any doubts as to her intellect, the matter was now put to rest. She had an eye and memory for detail.

“And you immediately concluded the marks were left by my hands?”

Her cool veneer cracked for a second, revealing a flicker of discomfort before snapping back into place. “You were her last lover. I knew how hurt she was—how she made a fool of herself begging you to come back to her…”

Miles’s throat constricted painfully. Bella had sent him letters—many letters. His proud Italian beauty
promised to do—and be—whatever he wanted if only he’d come back. He had finally stopped reading anything she sent him; he couldn’t stand the guilt.

“Bella never made a fool of herself,” he informed her, his voice hoarse.

The expression on Varya’s face told him she disagreed, but there was a glimmer of admiration in her eyes. Miles did not want her admiration.

“How did you know to find me in Covent Garden?”

Her chin rose a notch. “When I began to suspect you I had men watch your house. When I received word that you were in residence—”

“So you believe that I was truly out of town until last week?”

Cold blue eyes met his. “I believe no such thing, Lord Wynter. I know nothing of your whereabouts when Bella was killed—
yet
. All I know is that for the past week, you’ve been keeping very strange hours, hanging about the seedier parts of town. The night I found you, my man had overheard you giving directions to your hired coachman. He reported back to me and I followed.”

“And ruined a very important investigation I was working on, mind you!” Anger tingled along Miles’s skin, shivered in his rising voice.

She shrugged. It mattered nothing to her that the thieves had been given an extra day to brutalize their victims. The only thing the chit cared about was her completely erroneous conclusion.

“I wanted to catch you off guard, force you to confess.”

“That’s all very well and good,” Miles drawled, un
able to curb his caustic tone. “But why would I confess to something I didn’t do? And what did you plan to do? Shoot me if I did confess? Good Lord, woman! Do you know nothing of gathering evidence, of building a case? You have nothing but your own anger and need for vengeance against me. Give me one reason why I could have killed Bella.”

“Because she was hounding you and you were afraid your precious family and friends would find out how horribly you treated her!”

Miles was shocked. He’d never treated a woman badly in his life—except for Charlotte…But now wasn’t the time to think of his long-dead wife.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss Varya, but my
precious
family and friends knew about my relationship with Bella. I certainly never discussed her with them, but there are no secrets in London.”

Her face fell and Miles was sorry for her. Her loyalty to Bella, her determination to avenge her friend were touching and downright admirable.

“I didn’t kill her.”

The softness of her countenance disappeared, hardening once again into a cold mask.

“A man killed my dearest friend, Lord Wynter. And until you can prove your innocence, you are still a suspect.”

Prove his innocence? Did this lunatic know whom she was speaking to? He was a marquess, a peer of the realm. He didn’t have to
prove
anything!

“And I suppose that it never crossed your mind that a woman might have killed her?” he asked. Certainly a jealous wife could have done the deed, or hired some
one else to do it. Since he hadn’t seen the marks on Bella’s neck himself, he refused to believe Varya’s conviction that the murderer had been one of Bella’s lovers.

Varya shook her head. The movement loosened a lock of hair from her delicate coiffure and sent it tumbling down around her shoulder like an ebony ribbon. Miles wondered what her reaction might be if he were suddenly to reach out and touch it.

Touching her would be as wise as stroking a lion.

“No. It was a man.”

“And what makes you so certain?” He tore his gaze away from that shining lock of hair and met her determined gaze.

“Because she was dressed to receive a gentleman caller. She was wearing one of her negligées—a silver one with pearl buttons.”

He waved away her deduction with a flick of his wrist. “She wore that often.” At least for
him
she had. He had given it to her. The idea that Bella might have worn it for someone else was oddly provoking. “It means nothing.”

Varya smiled ruefully, with a hint of smugness. “Perhaps it means little to
you
, Lord Wynter, as you were her lover and no doubt saw her in many peignoirs—and less—but I was her friend and I know better.”

She paused and Miles jumped at her bait. “And just
what
do you know, Miss Varya?”

Again, she fixed him with a knowing smile. “I know that Bella only wore those flimsy gowns when a gen
tleman was coming to call. Every other night she wore an old linen nightrail that her grandmother had made for her. A hideous thing, but Bella loved it.” Her smiled faded. “
That
is how I know a woman did not kill Bella.”

“And no doubt you are correct,” he allowed, strangely envious that he had not known such a small detail of Bella’s life.

His path was clear. Regardless of his animosity toward her friend, he owed it to Bella’s memory to avenge her death.

“Rest assured I will discover the guilty party, Miss Varya. Just leave everything to me.”

And find the killer he would, even if it meant disrupting Varya’s own plans. For now, he was content with her appearance of innocence, but the last thing he wanted was a woman underfoot when there was work to be done.

“I beg your pardon?” She was staring at him with such a look of incredulity that he thought he must have said the words out loud.

“I will most certainly
not
leave everything to you, my lord.” Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her anger. “A few minutes of conversation does not put you above suspicion. Do you think that just because you are a charming man I’ll believe you innocent and better equipped to find Bella’s killer?”

Miles frowned. He didn’t like her tone. “I think, madam, that as a gentleman, I am able to enter into certain spheres in which you would not be permitted.”

The color drained from the rest of her face and
pooled into angry red splotches on her cheeks. Her nostrils flared with indignation. Obviously he had struck a chord.

“I’ll have you know that I am welcome in society’s finest homes, Lord Wynter.”

He gave her what he knew was a patronizing smile. “No doubt you are, madam. I spoke merely of those clubs whose doors are open to gentlemen
only
.”

Varya tilted her head. “And are these
gentlemen
in the habit of discussing murders they may or may not have had a part in at these clubs?”

Miles felt his cheeks warm at her sweetly spoken sarcasm.

“Not as a general rule,” he replied with forced lightness. “But I may be able to discern where some of Bella’s former lovers were on the night of her death. Have you even bothered to investigate the others, or have you played judge, jury, and executioner with me alone?”

She rose abruptly to her feet, leaving Miles little choice but to stand also. Her face was flushed with rage, her eyes as bright as moonlight on the ocean. Whatever else he thought of her, she was one magnificent-looking woman.

“I’ll tell you what, my lord.” She gave the bell cord on the wall a healthy tug. “You go right ahead and spend as much time as you wish at these clubs. You’ll find nothing there except partners in your depravity. I shall continue on as I have been—trying to unveil Bella’s murderer. Ah, Piotr. Please show Lord Wynter out.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw at her insults and blatant dismissal. His spine was straight as a poker as he turned to meet her glittering gaze.

“One word of advice, madam,” he offered between clenched teeth. “You should be most careful when playing detective. The next person you accuse of murder might actually be guilty of it, and you won’t be so fortunate to escape with merely a bruised arm.”

She paled at his words, and he was pleased to crack her composure. Damn her insufferable arrogance!

“Thank you for your advice, Lord Wynter. I hope you will also take a care during your endeavors—that is quite a nasty bruise on your temple.”

“Oh, ’tis not so bad. Much preferable to a bullet in the heart.” He smiled mockingly. “Aren’t you glad that I prevented you from spilling my blood, madam? Why, you might have been a murderer yourself.”

At this point all pretense of politeness on her side disappeared.

“Then I would see you in hell, Lord Wynter. Now I’ll thank you to get out of my house.”

The burly servant came to take his arm, but Miles shrugged off his meaty paw. He wasn’t about to give his harridan hostess the satisfaction of having him tossed out into the street.

He paused at the door to face her once again, a mocking grin on his face.

“Good evening, Miss Varya. I wish you luck in your endeavors and sincerely hope that you manage to keep from killing anyone before
I
solve the puzzle.”

Ivan was coming for her. He knew that she had been watching from his bedchamber door. She had seen everything.

Varya ran, but her legs were heavy and stiff. Each step was like pulling her foot out of soft mud. Ivan caught her without difficulty, his strong hands grabbing her by the hair. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes as he threw her to the ground.

She rolled into a sitting position, her scalp stinging and tears blurring her vision. Using her hands and feet to propel herself backward, she scooted away from him.

He stalked her like a cat with a mouse. His shirt was stained crimson. His face and hands were covered with blood. He reeked of death, and he was coming for her.

Varya’s back hit the wall. There was nowhere left to go. He was practically on top of her, blood slicked his hair like a gory pomade. She kicked out, catching his shin with her heel. He stumbled and almost fell.

She staggered to her feet, hunting frantically for some kind of weapon. A heavy pewter candlestick on a table caught her eye. She dodged to the right and grabbed it. Brandishing it like a club, she slowly circled toward the center of the room and began to back away.

Ivan advanced toward her, his bloody face twisted into a demonic grin. She swung her weapon. She missed.

“Put it down, Varya,” he commanded softly. “Put it down and I won’t hurt you.”

It was a lie and they both knew it. She swung again.
This time she did not miss. The heavy base collided with the side of his head with a dull thud.

He stumbled, shook his head, and advanced on her again, a low growl crawling up from his throat. Blood that was actually his own trickled down his temple.

She struck out again. He narrowly avoided the blow. He staggered again as blood trickled into his eye, and Varya seized the opportunity his weakness afforded her.

Her arm vibrated with the force of the blow, this time to his shoulder. She didn’t give him time to recover; she struck again and again, until finally he fell to the floor and was still.

Stunned by what she had done, she dropped the candlestick and raised her hands to her face; they came away smeared with blood. A wave of revulsion swept over her.

She woke up screaming as she realized it was his blood that dappled her face…

“O
h, don’t you look handsome!”

Miles rolled his eyes heavenward as he stepped into the drawing room in his stark black evening attire. As he had expected, his mother and sister were already assembled.

“Thank you, Mama,” he replied, kissing her smooth cheek. “You look lovely as always.”

The dowager marchioness smiled absently as she ran her thin hand down her son’s cheek. She didn’t have to speak for Miles to know that she was thinking of his father. The man had been dead for eight years and she still thought of him daily—especially when she looked upon the son who was almost a mirror image of his sire.

“Mama tells me you’re attending the Pennington
musicale,” Blythe piped up from across the room. “I have to wonder who she is.”

“Who?” he demanded, then realized he should know better than to step into his younger sister’s traps.

“The woman who has captured your interest so avidly that you would sit through one of Pennington’s dull affairs for her.”

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Miles merely shrugged and flicked a tiny speck of lint from his lapel. Let his sister think what she would. A chance to annoy the lovely Varya was only the icing on the proverbial cake. Her recital gave him ample opportunity to search Pennington’s personal correspondence.

“If such a woman existed, brat, she would not be any acquaintance of yours.”

Blythe rose to her full height of six feet and strode lazily toward him. Her height and striking beauty intimidated most men, but not one who remembered when she had knobby knees and spots.

“I can think of only one whom I know will be at Pennington’s tonight that has never crossed or been thrown into your path.” Her catlike eyes narrowed. “Would the attraction be
tonight’s
attraction—the Elusive Varya?”

Damn again.

He tugged at his cuff. “I have made the lady’s acquaintance, yes. She is charming, no doubt—if you like that sort of thing—but there is nothing between us.”
Except for Bella
, he added silently.

His sister smiled. “She’s beautiful, elegant, and very
ladylike. Don’t tell me she hasn’t fallen victim to your charms?”

Miles was peculiarly insulted by her teasing. Was he truly that much of a tomcat?

“Varya was a friend of Isabella Mancini’s,” he said softly. “It was she who informed me of Bella’s death.”

Blythe’s grin faded and was replaced with an expression of uncomfortable contrition. “Oh.”

He felt guilty for discussing such delicate matters. A mistress was something a man never spoke of with his maiden sister.

“Forgive me, Miles. I only meant to tease you.” Blythe’s gaze was sincere. “Obviously you and Varya share nothing but grief.”

Miles’s guilt deepened as a pink flush spread across his sister’s cheeks. Why had he said anything? Blythe had sought only to play matchmaker. He had ruined her fun and no doubt ruined her impression of Varya, who would be tainted by her association with his former mistress. Despite all the trouble the woman had heaped upon him, Miles had no wish to soil her reputation—which, he had ascertained, was above dispute.

“Do not berate yourself, brat,” he said with a soft smile, his tone teasing. “I doubt you need to worry about Varya falling victim to my charm.”

That much was true. He realized that Varya could very easily befriend Blythe to get at Miles, but he couldn’t imagine her stooping so low. She was not without a sense of honor.

Why was he even thinking of her in a positive light? Yes, Varya had been a friend of Bella’s, but she had
also abducted him at gunpoint with the intention of forcing a confession out of him. She had single-handedly held him at her mercy, had stood up to him when others would have cowered…

God help him, but he was attracted to her. And everything Blythe had said about her was correct. She was beautiful and elegant, and had all the appearance of being a lady.

He had lain awake half the night replaying the scene in her sitting room over and over in his head. By the time sleep had finally claimed him, he had rewritten the event so completely that instead of kicking him out, Varya had begged him to stay, trembling with passion rather than rage. The fantasy had evoked contrary emotions—arousal and anger. He was trying to concentrate on his anger. He could not let himself forget that she suspected him of murder.

But seducing her would be lovely. He would even love to be seduced by her. The mental image
that
thought called to mind caused a familiar stirring in his groin. Embarrassed, he tried to think of other things and willed his blood to cool.

It had been a long time since a woman had caught him so off guard. Never had a female treated him so coolly, so arrogantly. Certainly one had never tried to do him bodily harm. Varya had faced him not as a submissive female, but as an
equal
. An equal in intellect as well as rank. A singular occurrence, that.

Women often seemed content to enjoy his body, but inevitably, their thoughts turned to marriage. He was always honest about his desire never to marry again.
Of course, he kept his reasons for remaining single his own business. Not even the elusive cupid’s arrow could induce him to wed again. When conversations began to turn in the direction of the altar, Miles made his farewells. That’s what he had done to Bella. That’s what he would do to the beguiling Varya With-No-Last-Name.

If
she ever let him touch her. She certainly hadn’t displayed any interest in his attentions, nor had she done anything to warrant his offering them. Maybe that was what made her so damned attractive in the first place.

Or maybe it was her alabaster skin and clear blue eyes that reminded him of sunshine on Portuguese seas. Maybe he should stop thinking like Lord Byron and get to the musicale before it was too late to do any searching. No doubt Varya was hoping he wouldn’t show.

“Well,” he said, snapping out of his reverie. “We should be on our way. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

“Oh dear!” the marchioness exclaimed, scurrying toward the door. “Come along, children. Quick now! You know how I detest being tardy.”

“Yes, Mama,” Blythe replied, her eyes glittering with mirth as she left the room beside her brother. “I know why our mother is in such a hurry—she always is—but what is your hurry, brother dear?”

Miles grinned as they entered the hall. “Why, Blythe. I should think that would be apparent.”

His sister stepped into the wrap the butler held out
for her while Miles accepted his greatcoat and hat from one of the footmen.

“Oh? How so?”

Placing his hat on his head, Miles gestured for his sister to step outside into the cool night air before him.

“Because,” he replied as the door shut behind them. “I do so hate to keep a lady waiting.”

His gaze was like a smoldering weight on her throughout the performance. Keeping her head bowed, Varya concentrated on her playing and avoided looking into his mocking, mesmerizing eyes.

She had been surprised to see him arrive with his family. His sister had smiled warmly at her, and Varya had replied in kind. She knew she had never met the auburn-haired amazon before and could only wonder what Miles had said about her to merit such a greeting.

Many ladies of the ton had tried to befriend her and treated her with uncommon respect. Varya didn’t fool herself that any of these overtures would lead to the kind of friendship she had shared with Bella.

These women believed themselves above her, believed that the pleasure of their company was a great favor to a woman who actually
worked
for a living. Her fame and her spotless reputation were the only things in her favor. One wrong step and society would cast her down into the pit. Snobs.

Only Bella had known the truth about her. Bella hadn’t cared who she was. The daughter of an upstart Italian businessman had approached the lonely Russian girl without a second thought. A love of music
had brought them together, but genuine affection had made them friends.

Pushing thoughts of her friend aside as tears threatened, Varya fixed her gaze on the gleaming keys before her.

Without thinking of the music, she played. Fatigue and nerves made it difficult to concentrate on the emotion the notes usually inspired in her. Instead, her head filled with images from the nightmare that had woken her the night before.

It had been months since she last thought of St. Petersburg and Ivan. No doubt the events of the past few weeks—Bella’s murder and her experiences with the Marquess of Wynter—had triggered the horrible memories. She could only hope the dreams would not haunt her for long. Had she not suffered enough already?

Even more disturbing than the familiar dreams of Russia were the strange and unwarranted sensations stirred to life by Miles Christian. Before images of Russia had invaded her slumber, it had been
his
face disrupting her dreams.

Fantasies of soundly humiliating the arrogant marquess had given way to shocking vignettes of his lips crushing hers, of his hands caressing her flesh. How could she have such thoughts of a man she didn’t even like?

It had to be Bella’s influence. She had heard her friend rhapsodize so often about her handsome and generous lover that it only made sense that Varya would have trouble separating Bella’s image from reality.

Even with that thought uppermost in her mind, the knowledge that he was watching her—listening to her—sent a sharp shiver down her spine. Her rigid posture kept her audience from noticing her reaction but it couldn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from rising or her nipples from tightening almost painfully.

Despite her wandering mind and bewildered body, she made it to the end of the piece without error. It was rare that she ever faltered. Her fingers knew the keyboard so well, she supposed she could play even in her sleep. She could tell from the way the audience vibrated with tension that she had passed her emotions on to them—it was a powerful feeling.

Rising to her feet, she bowed graciously under the applause.

Across the room, the Marquess of Wynter stared at her with eyes that seemed to burn with gold fire. Like a moth, she was drawn to their flame and found it almost impossible to look away.

But she did.

“My dear, you were
marvelous
!”

“Oh, you simply
must
play at my soirée!”

“
Please
say you will come to our dear Sophie’s debut next week!”

She made polite conversation with those who converged upon her, asking all the matrons to send her a note reminding her of their invitations. She would be delighted to accept those that her schedule permitted. Even as she gave the appearance of interest in their chatter she watched Miles from the corner of her eye.

His actions mirrored hers. He made conversation, was polite to a fault, but all the while he seemed to be
waiting for his moment of escape. It was then that she realized he had not come to the musicale to hear her play. He had come to search for any evidence that might link Lord Pennington to Bella’s murder.

The knowledge made her feel strangely bereft.

How had he known about Bella and Pennington? Varya had gleaned the information from reading Bella’s journal, but she knew Bella never discussed her past lovers with her current one. Perhaps those gentlemen’s clubs were good for something after all.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Varya?”

Turning toward the husky voice, Varya was astonished to find Blythe Christian standing before her, an anxious expression on her striking face.

A long hand extended toward her. “I know we have not been formally introduced. I’m Blythe Christian. I believe you know my brother, Lord Wynter.”

Varya accepted the handshake, amazed by the gentle strength of the amazon’s grip. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

An uncertain smile curved Blythe’s lips. “I very much enjoyed your performance.” Her gaze flitted to the now silent pianoforte.

“Thank you.” Hoping to put the girl at ease, Varya smiled warmly. “I’m always pleased when someone finds pleasure in my music.”

“Oh, I did! We were to attend your recital at Lady Penwick’s in April, but my brother was called away to the country and we weren’t able to go.” She licked her lips. “I wonder if you might consider playing at a small soirée my mother and I are planning for the end of the season?”

So that was it. She had been mistaken in thinking Lady Blythe was making an overture of friendship. She simply wanted to hire her. What did she want a friend for anyway? No one could take the place of Bella.

“I would be delighted,” Varya replied, schooling her voice. “Just send me a note detailing the time and place.”

Blythe’s answering smile was more confident this time—one of genuine pleasure. Varya found it next to impossible to harbor any resentment.

“Wonderful! Mama will be so pleased.”

“Excellent.” Varya was annoyed with this sudden sense of sorrow that washed over her. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

The younger woman looked as though Varya had stepped on her toe. “Oh, yes, of course.”

With a slight curtsy, Varya turned to go. A strong hand grabbed her arm, forcing her back around.

Blythe moved closer until mere inches separated them. Her expression was so earnest that Varya could only stare at her.

“Miss Varya, I…” She swallowed. “I was very sorry to hear about your friend.”

Hot tears blazed at the back of Varya’s eyes. No one—not even those who had known Bella—had expressed any sympathy to Varya upon her death. And here was this young gentlewoman who would never—could never—have known Bella, expressing sorrow over her death.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

With the slightest hint of a smile, Blythe nodded
and walked away. Varya snatched a glass of wine from a passing footman and concentrated on drinking in small sips until she no longer felt like weeping.

When a group of ladies approached her a few moments later, she was able to pretend nothing had happened. She could even pretend she hadn’t noticed Miles watching her from across the floor.