Elusive Passion (8 page)

After their affair had ended Bella insisted on paying him rent. He accepted only because she loved the little house more than some people loved their children. Whether she had indeed paid him money he had no idea. His solicitor would have collected it for him. Miles had made a point never to see Bella again. And he hadn’t. He hadn’t even known she had returned from her tour of the continent. He wondered if she had even gone.

“The Runners have already been through here, Miles. All the evidence has either been found or ruined. What makes you think you can find something new?”

“Because I knew her,” Miles replied, not even bothering to look at his friend. “And because I owe it to her to look.”

Leaving the tomblike hall, Miles slowly climbed the stairs. He did not pause on the next floor, but continued on to Bella’s bedchamber. If there was anything to be found, he’d find it there.

He stepped inside, and almost gasped aloud as reality hit him—this was the room she had died in. He had already known it, but it was still shocking to see it. Someone had come into this room as a guest—a lover—and had killed her! Foolish, trusting Bella! The mental image brought the taste of bile to his mouth.

Like the pieces in the entrance hall, the furniture in Bella’s room had not been draped with holland covers. Dust clung like mold to the dainty dressing table and armoire. The bed hangings were dull and lifeless, shrouding the rumpled sheets like a widow’s veil. The bed had not been touched since Bella’s murder.

“You shouldn’t look at this.” Carny spoke from behind him.

Miles turned, the spell broken. “Carny, I’ve seen friends blown apart on the battlefield. An empty room cannot compare.” No, for imagining what took place in this silent room was no doubt worse than any reality. He imagined Bella being terrified, tortured, when in fact she probably died fairly quickly.

“There wasn’t much of a struggle,” he remarked, voicing his thoughts out loud.

Carny shook his head. “She knew him.”

“Varya says Bella was dressed to receive a lover. Obviously she wouldn’t expect him to kill her.” He moved toward the bed. “The bed is relatively neat as well. He did it quickly.”

“He had to.” Carny stepped up beside him. “If Bella had screamed all of London would have heard her.”

An image of Bella’s face frozen in a silent scream flashed in Miles’s mind. He shook it away. He couldn’t help her if he allowed emotion to get in the way.

A ray of sunshine filtered through the gauzy drapes to splay across the bed. A strand of gold glimmered on the pink sheets.

Frowning, Miles picked it up.

“What have you got?”

He held it up to the light. “A hair—dark blond.”

“Could belong to one of the Runners,” Carny suggested, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“It could.” Miles wasn’t convinced either. “Or it could belong to our murderer.”

“Still, it doesn’t give us much. Half the men Bella slept with have blond or light hair.”

Miles smiled grimly. “It would exclude those of us who don’t, however.”

Carny eyed him keenly. “You think Varya will believe your innocence now?”

“I’d like to think she and I are beyond that, my friend.” But yes, he hoped this might reinforce her belief.

“Do you want to look around some more?”

Miles shook his head. He’d didn’t want to spend another moment in that house.

“No. We’ll come back later. I’ve seen enough.” God, just seeing the room had shaken him. What had Varya suffered finding her best friend dead in that airy chamber? She had spoken of it only once, her grief barely concealed. Had she anyone to share her grief with?

They left the house in silence.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” Carny asked as he opened the door of his carriage.

“I think I’ll walk, thank you. I have some…business to take care of.”

His friend nodded, his gaze averted as he climbed into the coach.

“I will be at White’s tonight if you care to stop by for a drink.”

Miles smiled. Sometimes he needed a reminder of just what a good friend Carny was.

“Perhaps I’ll see you later.”

It was Carny’s turn to smile. “Or perhaps fate will be kind and you’ll be otherwise engaged.”

Miles doubted it. “Perhaps.” Shutting the door with a resounding thud, he waved goodbye to his friend and sent the coachman on his way.

He took a few steps before turning back to the house. Its clean red brick stared back at him—empty and bleak. An unexpected surge of anger washed over him.

I’ll find who did this to you, Bella. I’ll find him and make him pay.

It wouldn’t bring Bella back, but it would give her
some justice. And perhaps it might give Varya and Miles himself some peace of mind.

He turned away.

He hadn’t walked for long before his thoughts turned to Varya. What kind of man was he to want her so badly? She was Bella’s friend. He ought to respect that as she did. He knew Varya desired him, but it was her friendship with Bella that held her back. As much as he admired her for it, he couldn’t help but wish she were a little less noble.

Like himself.

Yes, it was low of him to pursue her, and a guilty conscience hounded him, but he could not let her go.

For the life of him he could not understand why she intrigued him so. Perhaps it was the feeling that she kept as many secrets as he did. Something in her eyes told him that she too had seen the face of death and managed to escape. Perhaps she might be the one to understand him.

“What if I’m wrong?” he asked out loud, smiling in embarrassment as a passing lady and her maid eyed him dubiously.

Even Bella, who claimed to have fallen in love with him, whose memory Varya held so dear, had first been attracted by the size of his purse rather than by his character. If he was wrong about Varya, the folly could prove fatal. A wise man would stay as far away from her as possible. A wise man would say goodbye before he found himself in over his head.

But the idea of one day saying goodbye to Varya left him with an odd hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. She had turned his world upside down and had
taken away the boredom that had caused him to take up working for the government. Since he had met her he hadn’t given a second thought to playing spy for the government. He left that to Carny without regret.

Would his life go back to being as spiritless as it had been when she walked out of it? He just couldn’t return to a life of Parliament, parties, and playing spy games with Carny.

There could be no future for him and Varya—not much of one, anyway. All he could give her was his protection, possibly his heart, although he wasn’t certain that was much of a prize. He could never make her his wife, never give her children. Quite frankly, he doubted that it was in him even to make a woman happy.

And that’s what Varya was. A woman. She wasn’t some young chit tossed into his path by a greedy mama. She wasn’t a bored
lady
out for a clandestine affair. She was everything that was unexpected and exciting, and she made him feel as though there was some life left in his bones.

She scared the hell out of him.

The musical dissonance of breaking glass woke Varya. Her head pounding from the rude awakening, she bolted upright in bed, the blankets falling around her hips. Straining her ears to ascertain where the sound had come from, she heard more crashing.

And voices.

“Katya?” she said softly.

Silence.

With her heart hammering and her stomach twitch
ing with fear, she crawled out of bed and slipped on the thin silk robe that had been draped over a nearby chair. Barefoot, she padded over to the door. She opened it cautiously and peered out into the dark hall.

The sounds were coming from downstairs. She could barely make out the faint outline of Piotr’s bulky form as he carefully made his way down to the lower floor. He took the main staircase so that anyone trying to harm her would have to go through him.

Silently, she followed, trusting that he would be able to protect them both.

They reached the landing below and moved like two shadows along the wall. The sounds were growing louder now as they approached the study.

Piotr glanced over his shoulder at her, motioning for her to keep back. Nodding, Varya was not surprised that her faithful servant had been aware of her presence, even though she had no idea how she had given herself away.

Piotr threw open the door of the study. It crashed against the wall, startling the two black-clad intruders. Varya could hear their curses.

A shot rang out, then another. Someone yelled in pain. She heard the sounds of a struggle, raised voices, then nothing.

Cautiously, she moved toward the door. She gasped in fright when Piotr suddenly appeared in front of her with a lamp. He gestured for her to enter the room.

The vandals were gone. They had climbed out the window and slid down the rope suspended from the stone flower box below the window. The rope glowed almost white in the moonlight.

“They had a gun,” Piotr told her, setting the lamp on the desk. “They shot at me, but missed. I shot back and hit one in the arm. He will hurt for a few days, I think.” He lit another lamp. Varya hauled the abandoned rope completely into the room before turning to survey the damage.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The room was in a complete shambles. Books were strewn everywhere. The drawers had been removed from the desk and the contents flung all over the floor. Paintings had been torn from the walls, trinkets swept off the shelves. Even the cushions off the furniture had been tossed to the four corners of the room.

“What were they looking for?” Piotr scowled. Nothing appeared to be missing, but there was no doubt that the burglars had indeed been looking for something.

“I have no idea,” Varya replied automatically, but then it clicked. There was only one thing in her possession that someone could possibly want to see, and
someone
was afraid he was mentioned in it.

Bella’s journal.

S
o this was where he slept at night.

Accepting the hand the liveried footman offered her, Varya alighted from her carriage. Once she was on the ground, her gaze flickered appreciatively over the creamy façade of the Palladian mansion. The portico had been fashioned to resemble an ancient Grecian temple, practically obscuring from view the high windows set into the smooth stone walls.

By English society standards, the house was the epitome of wealth and elegance. By Russian standards, it was a plain summer cottage. Varya could not fault it, however. She’d much prefer it over the cold mausoleum in which she had grown up.

Lifting her skirts, she hurried up the steps to the
door. “I’m here to see Lord Wynter,” she told the pleasant-looking butler who answered her knock.

Lifting her chin defiantly, she dared him to refuse her entrance. After all, it was highly unseemly for an unchaperoned woman to call upon a gentleman in his home. But it was Katya’s morning to go to market and Varya had been too anxious to see Miles to wait for her servant’s return.

The butler merely smiled and stepped aside for her to enter. Was Miles in the habit of receiving lone women in his home at all hours? Or was this servant the only nonjudgmental personage in all of England?

“Come this way, miss. I will inquire as to whether the marquess is at home this morning.”

Surely Miles would not refuse to see her? The thought raced through her anxious mind as she followed the gray-haired man through the Grecian-styled great hall and up the wide marble staircase. Being seen with her in public was one thing, but having her in the same house as his mother and sister might be too much even for him.

How she had fallen. If the ton only knew her true identity, those doors that were now shut to her would open, and all of London would fumble for her favor. But there was no sense in thinking of it. It would never be. She was the Elusive Varya and she was a mistress.

She was deposited in a large withdrawing room and left there while her escort continued to his master’s bedchamber. For a moment, Varya was tempted to throw all her breeding to the wind and follow him, just so she could catch a glimpse of Miles in such inti
mate circumstances. But she had not forgotten herself so completely just yet.

She seated herself in a comfortable winged-back chair upholstered in amber velvet. Weary from the long sleepless night that had followed the burglary attempt at her townhouse, she relaxed her rigid posture and leaned back against the soft cushions. She closed her eyes, grateful for the peace and feeling of security that seemed to surround her in this house.

Miles was here. Something inside her was convinced that he would know what to do, that he would make her feel safe again.

“Oh! Good morning.”

Varya jerked upright at the breathless voice, her eyes flying open in dismay.

Blythe crossed the room toward her, an amazon in amethyst silk. A cautious smile curved her lips.

“Forgive me. I…I did not mean to disturb your meditation.”

Varya smoothed her hair, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. Gone was the woman who greeted her so warmly just a few nights ago. As Miles’s sister, Blythe should not have any knowledge of his mistress, let alone an acquaintance with her, but Blythe was too polite to cut her directly.

“Please excuse me. I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well last night.” Realizing how that must sound, Varya’s cheeks flamed even hotter. She lowered her gaze to the carpet and prayed that the woman would leave.

Blythe eased her statuesque frame into the chair opposite her. Her feline eyes, so like her brother’s, were
bright with what Varya thought might actually be sympathy. It only added to her discomfort.

“I assume that you are here to see Miles?”

Folding her hands tight in her lap, Varya nodded. “Yes. Normally I would not presume such impropriety, but I have something of great importance to discuss with him.”

“Oh.” Now it was Blythe’s turn to wonder. “I thought perhaps you had come to discuss the musicale I mentioned to you at Lady Pennington’s.”

An icy chill cut through the heat infusing Varya’s face. “I assume you will want to withdraw your proposition.” It was not a question—she knew the answer.

“No,” came the startling reply. “I would like to continue as planned.”

Varya raised a brow at the rebellious smile that curved the younger woman’s full lips. Maybe Miles’s sister wasn’t the excruciatingly correct lady Varya had first believed.

“Will you take tea with me?” Blythe inquired, relaxing in her chair. “I’m absolutely uppish if I don’t drink at least four cups a day.”

Varya had never considered tea a cure for irritability. Too much of it had just the opposite effect on her.

“I would enjoy a cup, thank you.”

As if by magic, a maid appeared carrying a tray with a silver tea service on it. Evidently the servants were well aware of their young mistress’s habits.

“I realize we are both in a difficult situation, but I would like for us to be friends. Do you think that possible, Varya?” Blythe asked once the maid had left the room.

This was definitely not what Varya had expected. It was scandalous even to consider it, but she had no friends in London and was surprised to realize that she desperately wanted one.

“I think that very possible, yes.” Emotion made her voice hoarse to her own ears.

The redhead looked up from pouring their tea. Her smile was genuine, dazzling. “Then I am no longer impertinent for calling you by your Christian name. I’m afraid Miles has not seen fit to tell me your last.”

“He does not know it.”

Blythe’s arched brow and silence made Varya swallow uncomfortably. She knew how strange it must sound that she had not seen fit to tell her lover her family name. She couldn’t very well refuse to tell Blythe now that she had made such a point of bringing it up.

“It is Ulyanova.”

Blythe’s nose wrinkled. “I believe I’ll just call you Varya, if you don’t mind?”

Varya smiled. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Good. Cream and sugar?

“Please.”

Varya took the delicate china from her and raised the cup to her lips.

“Might I ask you a question of a rather…delicate nature, Varya?”

“Of course.”

“What’s it like to be a man’s mistress? Oh dear.”

Varya wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared in horror at the tea sprayed all over the table and the hem of Blythe’s gown.

“I suppose I should have waited until you had swallowed.”

“I can’t believe I was so clumsy. Please, forgive me.” She began dabbing the mess with her serviette.

“It isn’t your fault. Sometimes I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut—one of the pitfalls of being the only daughter, and spoiled rotten.”

Varya glanced up and saw the rueful smile on the other woman’s lips.

“I don’t mind your frankness. I’d rather you voice your thoughts to my face than behind my back.”

“Has it been so very awful for you?”

The genuine sympathy in her voice touched Varya. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had expressed such an honest concern for her well-being.

“Not so very bad,” she replied truthfully. “Perhaps it is society’s poison tongue that drives away your brother’s other lovers.” How easy it was for her to pretend she and Miles had actually been intimate.

Blythe’s expression was sullen. “I wouldn’t know. As a
lady
I’m not supposed to know such things.”

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Varya lowered her gaze. “You must believe me completely without morals.”

“Oh no!” Blythe assured, reaching across to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “I don’t think that at all, although I’m quite certain that my brother’s reputation will not suffer as yours. It’s so unfair.”

“No doubt society will forget all about me when Miles finds someone else.” Why did it hurt to say it aloud?

Blythe frowned. “Given different circumstances,
wouldn’t you like to have a long relationship with him? Perhaps marry him?”

“Lord, no!” Seeing the bewildered look on the other woman’s face, Varya felt compelled to go on. “It’s not that I don’t…
care
for your brother, I just don’t have any desire to marry.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

Blythe frowned. “Why not?”

“A wife becomes her husband’s property,” Varya reminded her bitterly, “as does everything she owns.”

“But you can have an agreement drawn up to protect your money and investments.”

Varya smiled indulgently, wondering if she had ever been so naïve in the ways of the world.

“No piece of paper can ever prevent your husband from doing exactly what he likes with you, Blythe.”

“Maybe not,” Miles spoke from the doorway, “but the bride’s older brother might be able to talk some sense into him.”

Varya’s heart leaped at the sound of his voice, despite his disapproving tone.

He strode into the room. His hair was damp and brushed back from his face. He was impeccably dressed in a chocolate brown coat and biscuit-colored breeches. She inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood, spices, and something faintly sweet. He always smelled so wonderful.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said politely.

He bowed. “Ladies.”

Blythe stood. Varya had to crane her neck to look at her face.

“Miss Ulyanova has come to visit you, Miles, and so I shall leave you to your privacy.”

Miles appeared puzzled by this announcement. “Thank you, Blythe.”

She smiled sweetly, said her goodbyes to Varya, and crossed to the door in a few steps.

Once the door had closed behind her, Miles lowered himself into the chair his sister had occupied just moments before.

“Ulyanova, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He poured himself a cup of tea.

Varya noticed just how large his hands were. He had trouble holding the pot by its delicate handle, so he curled his fingers around its base to pour.

“It’s quite common, actually.”
Liar
.

He arched a brow, but said nothing.

Varya sipped her tea, waiting for him to break this thin barrier of tension that had sprung up between them the moment he entered the room.

He did not keep her waiting long.

“Varya, I understand your experience with men is probably vast compared to that of my sister, but I would have her decision to marry be her own, and not influenced by someone whose view of men has been colored by unfortunate incidents.”

Varya smiled coolly. “As you wish, Miles. I have no desire to harm Blythe in any way.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you did,” he said softly. “Now, can I assume that you are here because you gave some thought to my offer—”

“It is grievous, don’t you think,” she interrupted, having no desire to discuss his “offer” so soon, “that a woman such as Blythe, who must marry, rarely sees a gentleman acting in any way other than his best behavior before the wedding? Oftentimes a woman never knows what kind of man she has married until it is too late.”

“That is unfortunate, yes. But you must remember that Blythe has the benefit of a very influential family, who would never allow anyone to treat her in a fashion she did not deserve. Now, why don’t you tell me—”

“Then she is a lucky young lady, indeed,” she agreed, setting her empty cup on the tray. It bothered her deeply when he mentioned the presumed difference in their social standing.

“It has been my experience that no matter how good the family name, one is still quite capable of selling his daughter off to the highest bidder, regardless of his moral character.”

“Did someone try to sell you to the highest bidder?” he inquired, his tone careful.

“Lord no,” she countered, realizing she had said too much. “You have already pointed out that you and I are not of the same sphere, and we both know that such arrangements are usually made only among the aristocracy.”

He regarded her for a moment, long enough to make her uncomfortable.

“Obviously I have offended you. Please forgive me. Perhaps you should tell me your reason for such an early visit.” He gazed at her patiently.

“Of course.” She suddenly felt very sheepish, and didn’t like it one bit. “Piotr and I caught two housebreakers in my study last night—”

“What?” Gone was his relaxed manner.

It was as though she had been caught in the middle of a cannon blast. Gingerly, Varya laid her hands over her ears and waited for the ringing to stop.

“I don’t believe I need to repeat myself.”

He reached across the scant distance between them and gripped her shoulders painfully. “Were you hurt? What did they take?”

She winced, and he loosened his hold.

“I am unharmed, and they didn’t take anything.”

Miles released her and stood. He moved toward a window, sipping his tea as if it helped him to contemplate the situation.

“I believe they were searching for Bella’s journal.”

He turned to face her with a scowl. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only thing I’ve ever had in my possession worth stealing—particularly if the thief was connected to Bella’s murder.”

“They could have been after your jewels,” he suggested. “Money, perhaps personal papers?”

Varya thought it was somewhat unlikely. Even though she had plenty of valuable items in her possession, no one in England knew anything about them.

“How many women do you know who keep their jewels in the study?”

Shaking his head he frowned. “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right.”

“It had to happen eventually,” she retorted caustically.

Miles glowered at her. “Retract your claws, harpy. I meant that your theory disturbed me because it means you are in danger, not because I was surprised by your astuteness.”

“Oh.” How many more times would she make an idiot of herself that day?

“Who among Bella’s acquaintances know the two of you were friends?”

“Everyone. We were often seen together—we performed together quite a bit.”

“So it wouldn’t have been difficult for the murderer to discern your relationship?”

Varya’s brow furrowed. Where was he going with this? “No. We never tried to hide our friendship. Why would we?”