Fanning the Flame (9 page)

At the bottom of the knoll, he drew Ram to a halt for a moment before making the assent to the top, unwilling to face the disappointment he was certain lay ahead.

You're a fool, Major,
he thought. Then he urged the animal forward, up to the top of the hill. When he looked down at the placid, glistening water and the little iron bench beside it, a wave of relief hit him so hard he felt dizzy.

Jillian sat on the bench, calm as you please, feeding the ducks as if she hadn't a care in the world.

His relief slid away, followed by a jolt of blazing anger. Adam nudged Ram off the knoll, down through the deep green grasses, toward the woman carelessly relaxed on the wrought-iron bench.

Jillian listened to Esmerelda's familiar quacking and tossed another bit of bread to the hen and her string of ducklings. After days of being confined in Blackwood's town house, she had awakened tired and disturbed, thinking about him, confused in a way she never had been before. She had to get out of the house and knowing it was a foolish, dangerous thing to do wasn't going to stop her.

Still, she wasn't a complete and utter harebrain. For weeks she had been up and about at this early hour, traveling the dew-slick streets, and she felt fairly certain that no one of consequence would be around to notice her. An image of Blackwood on his tall black horse flitted briefly through her mind, but she didn't think he had been going to the park of late and even if he did, there wasn't any reason to believe he would turn up at the duck pond.

Jillian smiled at Esmeralda, already feeling better, and tossed her another piece of bread. The hen's small, feathered head came up at the same instant Jillian heard the pounding of hoofbeats.

Oh, dear God!
She jumped to her feet at the sight of the tall, dark earl swinging down from his horse, swearing an oath as he strode toward her. There was no mistaking the fury distorting his features, making him look utterly ruthless.

Unconsciously she took a step backward, then another and another, until the trunk of a sycamore came up behind her and she couldn't go any farther. Blackwood reached her in a few more strides, his mouth thinning into a hard, unforgiving line. His fingers gripped her shoulders and he hauled her toward him, glaring down at her from inches away.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Her own temper flared. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and the hood of her cloak fell back. Who did he think he was? He didn't own her. He was helping her—that was all!

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm feeding the ducks."

"Feeding the ducks?" He seemed incredulous. "You could be captured and thrown into prison at any moment and you are out here feeding the ducks!" His eyes were nearly black, his jaw clamped so hard the scar along the edge stood out in relief.

She tried to pull away but the tree blocked her escape. There was nowhere to go and his hold was unshakable. "I'm not your prisoner, no matter what you think."

His hard mouth barely curved. "Are you not? Don't delude yourself, Miss Whitney. If you think for a moment you are leaving my house before I know the truth of Fenwick's murder, you had better think again."

Her temper spiraled higher. "I wasn't trying to leave, you . . . you jackanapes! I was only going for a walk. That is hardly a criminal offense!"

He stared at her in disbelief that she had dared to speak to him that way. Then his mouth edged up at one corner and some of the harshness seeped from his features. His hands fell away from her shoulders. Even with the distance between them, she could feel the heat of his body, and a curl of warmth slid into her stomach.

"No, taking a walk is not a criminal offense, but what if someone sees you out here? Do you know there is a bounty on your head?"

Jillian swallowed, tried to control the shudder that rippled through her. "All right—it was a stupid thing to do. I know you don't understand, but I simply couldn't stay in that house a moment longer. I needed to breathe. I needed a place to think, to figure out what I'm going to do."

His features softened. He no longer looked angry and she thought as she had before how impossibly handsome he was.

"Perhaps I do understand. I was coming here this morning myself. There are times God's green earth and good fresh air are the only tonics that work. But it's dangerous for you to be here, Jillian. If someone sees you, they might figure out who you are. The authorities could discover where to find you and if they do, they'll haul you off to prison. That, I assure you, is not a place you wish to be."

He didn't say more, but he didn't back away, just stood there looking into her face. Her pulse hitched into an even faster pace, only this time she wasn't angry. Very slowly his gaze moved down until it fixed on her mouth. Jillian nervously moistened her lips and for an instant something flared in his eyes. Insanely, she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he straightened, turned, and took a step away.

She couldn't believe she felt disappointed.

"It is past time we returned to the house," he said, his voice a little rough. "I'd take you back on Ramses, but the two of us riding that way might draw attention and it's imperative you remain unnoticed."

"I got here on my own. I can find my own way back."

He nodded. "You leave first. I'll follow a little behind you."

Grateful to be away from the unsettling feelings he stirred, Jillian turned and started walking. She couldn't resist a last glance over her shoulder. Blackwood's eyes remained fixed on her, and for the first time it occurred to her that he might have been worried about her. Or perhaps, he merely intended to see justice done—one way or the other.

The thought put an end to the rising spirits she had felt as she'd fed Esmerelda and her babies at the pond.

It was nearly dark, the sky a purplish gray, a low layer of clouds hanging over the city when Adam returned to the town house after another futile day. First his meeting with the runner he had hired, Peter Fraser, disappointingly had turned up nothing new. 

"It takes time, my lord, to ferret these things out," Fraser had said. "You must try to be patient."

But he wasn't a patient man, especially when a woman's life hung in the balance.

Clay's efforts had also been in vain, though he remained optimistic. "Eventually, something will surface. I spoke to Justin this morning." The Earl of Greville was Clay's best friend. "He and Fenwick were in several business ventures together. I thought he might be able to help."

Adam paced over to the window of his study, looked out at the wind beating through the plants in the garden. He returned his attention to the duke. "For Greville's sake, I hope his ventures with Fenwick were more profitable than the ones the earl convinced Lord Eldridge to invest in."

Clay flashed a smile. "Far more profitable. Everything Justin does makes money, I'm happy to say. The man has always had the Midas touch."

"You didn't tell him that Jillian was staying with me?"

"No. I said I had my doubts that the woman under suspicion was guilty of the murder and I wanted to find out who was. Justin isn't the sort to press for information he hasn't been offered. He volunteered to see what he could do."

Adam didn't particularly like the idea of involving Greville in this, but if he was going to clear Jillian’s name, he needed the help of people he could trust and he knew the earl was one of them.

After his meeting with Clay, Adam had gone to see Howard Telford. The newly titled earl had retired to Fenwick Park, his country estate in Hampshire County.  Atwater, the butler, had said he was there to "sort things out and grieve for his murdered uncle."

All in all it had been a useless, frustrating day, and Adam was glad to he home.

Stepping into the foyer, he handed his greatcoat to Reggie, who hung it on the hook beside the door.  Wearily, he made his way down the corridor to his study.

The London
Times
rested on the arm of the sofa. As he shrugged out of his tailcoat and draped it over the back of a chair, he absently picked up the newspaper and flipped it open. One look at the front page and his eyebrows slammed down.

Every day another article about the murder appeared, repetitious accounts of the incident with all the gory details and a description of Jillian Whitney, the woman suspected of the crime. There was nothing new in the case, the paper said, and the woman remained a fugitive.

But today, an addition had been made to the piece. An etching of Jillian's likeness appeared on the front page of the
Times.

Bloody hell.

The servants would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to see the resemblance to his "cousin" Jane Winslow, then piece together the date of her arrival, his call at Fenwick's mansion the morning after the murder, and the trips he had made to Bow Street.

And yet they were a loyal bunch. He wasn't too sure Reggie and Maude, with the help of ex-corporal Lance Whitehead, his coachman, hadn't figured it out that first day and simply kept their silence.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought. Jillian walked in looking pale and shaken, her hands trembling as she held up a copy of the
Evening Post.
"Have you seen this?"

He nodded, held up the
Times.

"What am I going to do?"

He damned well wished he knew. "Considering your face is in every paper in the city, along with information on the reward the new earl has offered, it's only a matter of time until someone figures out who you are and that you're here. Instead of hiding, perhaps it's time you came forward. I've a friend who's a first class banister. I could try to arrange—"

Jillian whirled away and bolted for the door. Adam caught up with her before she could escape and spun her around to face him.

"You can't run from this, Jillian."

"I have to run—can't you see?" Her incredible blue eyes were round as teacups. "I don't have any choice. I can't possibly go to the authorities—they won't believe a word I have to say. I've got to leave the city." She looked up at him, blinked against a well of tears. "Please . . . I'm not trying to escape. I simply need to find somewhere safe until the authorities can discover the person who is guilty."

Adam caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Listen to me, Jillian. We've been through all this before. You've nowhere to go and it isn't safe for you to simply wander the streets."

She swallowed, turned her face away. "You won't let me leave because you think I'm guilty."

"I won't let you leave because sooner or later they'll find you, no matter where you hide. The only way you're going to escape is to prove that you didn't kill Fenwick."

Her shoulders sagged. When he let her go, she walked over to the French doors leading out to the garden looking so forlorn he felt an unexpected pang in his chest. For a moment she simply stood there, then she pulled one of the glass doors open and stepped out into the night.

Adam followed, stopping on the terrace to watch her. By the light of the torches along the gravel paths, she wandered aimlessly over to the marble fountain in the center of the garden and sat down on one of the curved stone benches.

Clouds drifted across the sky, but glimpses of a full moon slanted down between the branches of the trees and he could see her features clearly, tense at first, her indrawn breaths shaky. Little by little her troubled expression began to ease.

She turned toward the fountain, trailed a hand through the water, let the tiny droplets trickle from her fingers. She tipped her head to gaze up at the sky, and just watching her, some of his own tension faded. She looked as she had when he'd found her this morning at the duck pond, quiet and serene, as she had appeared the first time he had seen her.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She rose at his approach. "I always feel better when I am out of doors. And the water is soothing. It sounds like tiny crystal beads breaking on a mirror."

Her gaze remained on the gentle spray of the fountain. The statue in the center was Egyptian, a Greco-Roman period piece he had purchased just last month, the head of a man, his face tilted toward the sky, water spraying out of his mouth.

"There's more to it than simply being out of the house. What is it?"

Jillian's lips curved into a smile, and he noticed the hint of a dimple beside her mouth. His groin tightened. He wanted to press his lips against the spot, wanted to see if it deepened when he kissed her.

"Out here I'm able to think more clearly, put things in perspective. It's true that I'm frightened, more than I've ever been before. But in life there is always something to be afraid of. I learned that when my father died. His death was completely unexpected. I had no one to turn to, no one to help me, but somehow I knew I'd be all right."

She turned toward him, bathing her features in moonlight. "The truth is, I'm not guilty of murdering Lord Fenwick. Whatever happens, no matter what anyone says, I know in my heart I've done nothing to be ashamed of. As long as I am true to myself, no one can ever really hurt me."

Her gaze returned to the fountain and he wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw her into his arms and absorb her sense of peace, a tranquility that continued to elude him.