Fanning the Flame (34 page)

His family would scarcely approve of a match between a Dutton and a Hawthorne, no matter that Maggie's brother was an earl. With another man, she would simply have come out and asked, but if she did that with Garth, he might admit that he only wanted her in his bed, and if his intention was other than marriage, she would have to refuse to see him.

The thought made her heart squeeze.

Garth paused in the middle of the gravel path. "Your mind is wandering, love. Do you really find my company so tedious?"

Startled, she glanced up at him, into those bright green eyes. "You know I don't."

"What were you thinking?"

If only she could tell him, admit that she was afraid she was falling in love with him, that if she did, her heart was bound to be broken.

"I was thinking about my brother and the trial," she lied, though earlier it had been true.

Garth reached toward a little yellow marigold, plucked the blossom, and absently twirled the stem. "Your brother is in love with Miss Whitney, you know."

Maggie's stomach contracted. "Adam has always had a protective streak. He's been fighting for the underdog since he was a boy. It doesn't mean he loves her."

And Maggie prayed he didn't. If Adam truly loved a woman, he would want her to be happy. He wouldn't consider keeping her as his mistress; he would want her to be his wife. As much as Maggie adored her brother and wanted him to be happy, as much as she had come to like Jillian, she prayed it wasn't the truth.

Even if Jillian's innocence was proved, Adam's reputation would never recover, and Maggie's own would be blackened right along with it. If there were the slightest chance Garth intended to offer marriage, that chance would disappear.

"You disapprove of Miss Whitney?" Garth held out the marigold and Maggie accepted it with a hand that only faintly trembled.

"No. I like her. Very much, in fact. I just . . . I'm not sure my brother is capable of falling in love." That was the truth, or at least it had been true until Jillian had appeared. Maggie couldn't help wondering if perhaps Garth was right and her brother was falling in love.

In the moonlight, Garth's eyes seemed to caress her. "What about you, Lady Margaret? Do you think you could ever fall in love?"

Maggie stared up at him, her pulse taking a leap. "That depends. I suppose I could . . . if the right man came along."

He brushed a finger along her cheek and a little ripple ran over her skin. "This man . . . what would he be like?"

Like you,
she wanted to say.
Strong and solid, handsome as sin. The kind of man who takes my breath away.
"He would have to be honest and sincere." She twirled the stem of the marigold between her gloved fingers. "I'd want him to be gentle, but also a man of strength, someone I could count on."

"What about passion?" Garth asked softly, his gaze steady on her face.

Maggie moistened lips that suddenly felt too dry. "Yes . . . that would certainly be important. A strong, passionate man—a man who makes me feel like a woman."

Garth's hand pressed into the small of her back as he drew her into his arms. "Do I make you feel like a woman, Maggie?" She didn't have time to answer before his mouth descended over hers.

What started as a gentle exploration of lips grew hotter in an instant. Maggie trembled. She opened for him, allowing the invasion of his tongue, then entangled it with her own and heard him groan. She found herself clinging to his shoulders, pressing herself against him, straining to get even closer. She could feel his arousal, a solid ridge pressing hard against her belly. Instead of being frightened, she felt her heartbeat quicken and the blood begin to pulse in her ears.

Garth shifted, deepened the kiss, and Maggie clutched his neck, going up on her toes to press into the hot rod that seemed to promise respite from the heat he created. She was trembling, whispering his name when Garth turned away, bringing the kiss to an end.

"We have to stop," he said gruffly, "before I take you right here." He held her close, one big hand cupping the nape of her neck, cradling her head against his shoulder.

Maggie made a faint sound in her throat, whether of protest or gratitude she couldn't be sure. She only knew she wanted him to hold her forever and she knew that he could not.

"You're shivering. It's time we went in." But his eyes, a smoky shade of green in the moonlight, said he didn't want to leave and neither did Maggie.

Reluctantly she released him and took a step away. "My aunt will be furious if she wakes up and finds us gone."

"I know." His thumb brushed over her kiss-swollen lips. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something more, and her heart swelled with hope. Instead, he shook his head and his lips seemed to tighten. Resting a hand at her waist, he guided her back to the house.

They passed the drawing room, saw that her aunt still slept on the sofa, and kept on walking. In the entry, he paused.

"I'll be busy for a while. The trial begins soon and I've got things to do."

She nodded, but her throat felt tight. She wondered if he had come to his senses and decided not to see her again. She started to ask him, but couldn't seem to force out the words.

"Good night, love."

"Good night, Garth."

He didn't kiss her again and she knew a moment of disappointment. Her heart felt swollen and tender. She was no longer worried about falling in love with Garth.

As she watched him descend the front porch stairs on the way to his carriage, Maggie knew it had already happened.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The rattle of harness and the whir of iron wheels echoed against the brick walls in the alley behind the late Lord Fenwick's mansion. The vehicle pulled to a halt in the shadows and Adam swung open the door.

Dressed completely in black, he descended the narrow iron stairs, followed by Clay, also dressed in black, then reached up to help Jillian alight. In her simple dark gray gown, her auburn hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck, she blended with the men into the moonless night that was the answer to the first of their prayers.

The air was cold and damp, the city submerged in a thick gray mist that obscured visibility. A sheen of dew softened the earth, helping to muffle their footsteps as Adam followed Jillian toward a vine-covered gate at the rear of the mansion. Crickets stilled as they walked past, replaced by the hoot of an owl and the flap of wings just over their heads.

Adam barely noticed. His mind was fixed on his mission, undertaken with the same cold precision he had exercised in the army. They had decided to enter the house shortly after midnight in hopes that Howard would either be out for the evening or asleep upstairs in his room. The servants would be abed and the lower floors deserted, allowing them to get in and out without being seen.

Or at least that was the plan.

As Adam watched Jillian moving silently along in front of him, the muscles across his shoulders tightened. He didn't want her there, didn't want to put her in danger, but her arguments had been persuasive. She knew the house, knew the best way in and out—and no other options remained.

She paused at a small door obscured by ivy clinging to the weathered wood. He watched her search the mossy bed of a big clay flowerpot until she located a heavy iron key. Holding up the key in triumph, she inserted it into the lock, opened the door, and motioned for him to follow her into the house. Clay walked in behind them.

"This way," Jillian whispered, once they stood in the darkened hallway. Silently, Adam followed her down a narrow corridor that bisected another hall. One path led off to the left toward the kitchens while the second corridor turned right. They headed in that direction until another door appeared. Jillian turned the handle, quietly shoved it open, and they stepped into a small, windowless room.

"We're in the earl's private library," she said softly, fumbling in the darkness for the brass whale oil lamp that sat on a long mahogany table. Clay lit the lamp, casting light and eerie shadows along the book-lined walls; then they proceeded toward the door to the main part of the study.

Unlike the library, it was a large, less formal room. Evidence of the late earl remained in the worn leather sofas and chairs, the etching of his long-dead wife over the hearth. With the lamp turned low, they moved to the windows and closed the heavy damask draperies, then Adam lit a second lamp and Clay turned up the wick on the first.

He heard Jillian's sigh of relief. At least they had made it this far.

In the soft yellow light, he could see her face, paler than it should have been, the lines around her mouth tight with nerves. She glanced down at the carpet, stretched over the polished wooden floors, the place where the old earl had lain after he had been killed, and her face paled even more.

Dammit, he shouldn't have let her come, should have found some other way. He had known the memories would surface, and with them the grief.

He was in love with her. Sometime during the long, sleepless night, he had come to grips with the knowledge. Now he wanted to protect her, to hold her, soothe the sorrow he read in her face.

Now was not the time. Her life depended on finding something useful and he intended to make the most of each second they remained in the study.

He moved closer, slid an arm around her waist. "Show me the hidden compartment," he said to her, purposely drawing her thoughts from memories of the past. She nodded and they walked over to the big rosewood desk in front of the window. Seating herself in the high-backed leather chair, Jillian reached beneath the desk and pulled a tiny concealed lever. When she opened the middle drawer, another hidden drawer popped open behind it.

Unfortunately, the drawer was empty.

"You go to work in the library," he said, ignoring the disappointment on her face. "Clay and I will search in here."

"All right." She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist and pulled her back, gave her a swift, hard kiss. "If anything goes wrong, get out of here as fast as you can. Go back to the carriage. Lance will get you home."

Her gaze grew more disturbed, but she didn't argue, just kissed him one last time and hurried away. He prayed if things went bad, she would do as he had told her.

Returning his attention to the desk, Adam began searching through drawers while Clay went through a small bookcase next to the door.

They worked in silence for perhaps twenty minutes, Adam carefully examining each drawer, rifling through stacks of papers, making a cursory review of each one. Nothing looked the least bit hopeful, mostly tenant leasehold papers, stock certificates, and insurance forms. He was immersed in a document that appeared to be a record of income received from one of the Fenwick estates when the door slammed open and Howard Telford walked in.

Adam's gaze locked on the pistol Howard held in a pale, blunt-fingered hand and silently he cursed.

"Well, well, well." In a black-and-gold silk dressing gown, his sandy hair rumpled as if he had just got out of bed, Howard tilted his weak chin at an arrogant angle. "Look what we have here."

Adam willed himself not to glance at the door to the room where Jillian was. He prayed she had heard Howard's entrance and escaped outside to the carriage. Instead, she walked in just then, her head down as she skimmed the pages of a book.

"Adam—you won't believe what I've found." She glanced up, stopped dead at the sight of Howard, and her eyes went round with shock.

Howard's expression grew even more smug. "Isn't this cozy. I'm only slightly surprised to see you here, Jillian, considering how desperate you must be." He shifted his gaze to Adam. "But I'm astonished that a man of your position—an earl, no less—would lower himself to the level of a common thief."

Adam flicked a glance toward the bookcases they had been searching, but the duke had disappeared out of sight behind the door Howard had come in through.

"Thievery was never my intention, as I'm certain you know. But even if I were a thief, it would be preferable to being a murderer."

Howard's fleshy face turned red. "You have some nerve accusing me." But he swallowed as he walked farther into the room and quietly closed the door. From the corner of his eye, Adam saw Clay move into the shadows behind Howard's back, a small pocket pistol in his hand.

"I think you know very well what I'm talking about," Adam continued. "If not, considering your alibi for the night of the murder has recently been torn to shreds, perhaps you can guess."

Howard's thick fingers imperceptibly tightened on the pistol. "That's insane. I was attending the Foxmoor soiree that evening. Half the
ton
saw me there."

"Yes, they did," Jillian added. "And two of them also saw you leave."

"She's right." Adam drew Howard's attention back to him. "You were gone just long enough to walk the four blocks back to this house, shoot the earl through the study window, toss the gun into the room, and return to the soiree. It would have been the perfect murder if you hadn't been seen."

Something stirred in Howard's features, a tautness that made his fleshy face look harsh. "You always did think you were smarter than the rest of us.
A major in His Majesty's Army.
Well, so what if I left the party and went for a walk? Do you really believe that is grounds to accuse me of murder?"