Fortune Favors the Wicked (8 page)

“Was it? That's good. Throwing sticks is more of a sighted person's game.”

“And what is your preferred game?”

“At present, locating fifty thousand pounds worth of stolen gold sovereigns.”

For a little while, Charlotte had forgotten all about that. “Yes, that is mine, too.” She tried to laugh, but the words were too heavy. “I know I shouldn't, but I've begun to build plans upon the reward, as though it's already in my hand.”

“You cannot be the only one doing so, Miss Perry. You are certainly not the only one determined to find the coins. The death of the serving girl at the Pig and Blanket proves that.”

“It proves that Nancy Goff knew something, does it not? Something she didn't even realize was important until it was too late.”

“Cat eyes and cloak? Maybe, but I can't make anything of that. I'm more suited to taking the lay of the land hereabouts.”

My land. My gold
. A spasm of possessiveness made Charlotte clench her fists. “Much luck to you, Mr. Frost,” she said with false lightness. “The land is a rock sponge. It's riddled with caverns and streams—the gold could be hidden anywhere.”

“Do you have a different plan?”

She set her lips, mulish. Her silence told him enough.

“Ah, you really do think of yourself as my competitor.” He sounded sorrowful. Sunset painted his face—not the color of a bruise, but that of a jewel. A ruby, warm and precious. A topaz, orange-golden. All a step away from gold, but only a step.

She released a deep breath, unknotting her hands. “It's for her, Mr. Frost.” At a distance, Maggie called to Captain, two small shadows in the waning daylight. “With the reward, I could begin anew with her. We would live as aunt and niece, respectable in some small village. My parents could relax into peaceful retirement, and I . . .” She trailed off.

“Would be utterly bored?” He lifted his brows.

How did he know what she feared? “Maggie would be enough for me,” she said firmly.

This was her dream of perfection, but she might be too imperfect ever to make it succeed.

“I apologize,” Frost said. “I spoke as a wanderer without a single root. But your dreams are your own business, and you know them best.”

“There is nothing about business in a dream. That is what makes it such a pleasant diversion.”

But here there was not diversion enough; Strawfield was quiet in all the wrong ways. Breeze and sleepy birdsong and the faint buzz of some twilight-hungry insect in place of London's hallooes and hoofbeats and carriages. How was one to avoid thought?

“I think,” she said, “it must be time to go back inside. Captain will be getting tired, and Maggie, too, though she would never admit it. Mr. Frost, if you care to remain outdoors, I shall leave the door unlatched for you.”

He rose to his feet, helping her up, and bent to gather her shawl and return it to her fumbling hands.

“I will stay a few minutes longer,” he said, “and let the sun finish slipping away.”

But you cannot see it,
she almost said aloud. She could feel the darkening, though; and if
she
could, with her sense of touch grown lazy and subservient to sight, he certainly would, too.

She called Maggie and Captain to her, bundling them inside with a hurried good-night. Wanting to get away, to close a door between herself and the sunset, and Mr. Frost, as the night fell with the dread and promise of something new to come on the morrow.

The night seemed very short and far too long once dawn broke Charlotte's troubled sleep for good. Morning meant freedom to begin her search—as soon as she could slip from the vicarage.

She made certain she crossed paths with no one but the maid Barrett at breakfast time, a simple meal taken when one wished. Barrett took Charlotte's rough boots and lumpy-sleeved gown—knife in place—as a matter of course. She had learned when they were both no more than girls that one didn't ask questions of Charlotte, because one could not be sure of wanting to know the answer.

Silently as she could creep, now, Charlotte retrieved the horrible veiled bonnet from her shared bedchamber and made for the staircase.

The second stair creaked beneath her weight; she bit her lip. She should have remembered that noise. She had sneaked down these stairs innumerable times during her teen years.

With a tiptoe, she tested the tread of the next stair.

“Off somewhere in secret, Miss Perry?”

She shouldn't have been surprised. She really shouldn't.

But she had hoped, all the same, that she wouldn't encounter him before leaving the vicarage. “Mr. Frost. Good morning to you. Of course there is no secret about my departure. I am an open book.”

“Ah, well. You know I can't read such things. If you plan to leave the vicarage, a virtuous young lady such as yourself ought to have an escort.”

Slowly, she turned and looked up at him through the film of her veiled bonnet. He stood outside the door of his bedchamber, wearing his naval uniform coat again, with clean linens. Arms folded; expression expectant.

Delicious
collided with
damnation
in her thoughts. “I do not require an escort.”

She would have liked company on her errand, had it been any other sort. But she could not invite Frost along on this one. Could not bring herself even to speak the words of explanation.
You cannot come with me, because I need to check the places where Edward Selwyn once hid the contraband of our love affair, and where I fear he might again have hidden some clue. He is a man of great sentiment, you see, and great suggestibility.

Right. She was
not
going to say any of that—not to Benedict Frost, wry and waiting.

“You think you don't require an escort.” He raised a brow.

Fine. Let him exercise his brow all he wished. “That's correct. Farewell.” She turned and descended one more stair before he spoke again.

“You have veiled your face.”

She sighed. “It is so annoying how much you notice.”

“A sighted man would notice far more,” he said drily.

“I think not. A sighted man would notice different things.” She had become familiar with the things such men noticed through the past decade, a long lesson in the pleasures to which they felt themselves entitled.

She hated the damned veil, but she needed its anonymity. Miss Perry had no reason to roam about the countryside. And in case someone recognized Charlotte Pearl—well,
La Perle
could not afford to be seen at present. Not while Randolph was still hunting for her.

If he was hunting for her. But she had the feeling he was. Randolph didn't like losing so much as a hand of
vingt-et-un,
and he had lost an entire courtesan.

Sleepy Strawfield had suddenly become too much like London: a few familiar faces surrounded by strangers. Each unknown face had an unknown story, made desperate by unknown motivation.

She knew little so far of Benedict Frost, though what she knew, she liked. But she would not allow anyone to accompany her. Not even him.

“I thought you would be speaking to the coroner with my father,” she managed by way of excuse. “Surely you want to be prepared for the inquest this afternoon.” Such events had to be held in a hurry, so the jury might view the body before it decayed. As the following day was a Sunday, all the events were to be squeezed in today.

“I have no need to prepare. I will hardly be called as a witness.” He leaned against the frame of the bedchamber door, as solid as though he were part of the house. “Your mother is giving Maggie her morning lessons. Your father will be gone all day, for after he speaks to the coroner, he'll be off performing virtuous works until the inquest.”

Charlotte coughed. “Perhaps we'd better not use that phrase. Ever again.”

A second roguish brow lifted to join the first. “Very well, hostess. But you must understand—it's just you and me for now. And I want to keep you company.”

“That won't be possible. I'm sorry, Mr. Frost, but I really have to be go—”

“Ah, you are embarrassed to be seen with the rough, blind sailor.”

“Indeed not.” Piqued, she took a step back up.
Creak
. “I choose my company based on manners, not appearance.”

“I have beautiful manners. The finest in all of Europe, with the possible exception of a few people in Paris.”

“Is that so? The Parisians I have met have all been uncommonly rude.” How did he always make her want to smile? “Mr. Frost, I have every confidence that a man who can explore foreign lands enough to write a book can occupy himself for a few hours.”

“Oh, I've never lacked for occupation. I can always find a way to busy myself.”

Something about the low swoop of his voice made her clench her toes within her boots.
Yes
.

“But it's you about whom I'm thinking.” His expression turned serious. “Miss Perry, a young woman has been killed. Nance Goff had only the slight knowledge that came from a chance encounter with a stolen coin and the person who gave it to her. Someone in Strawfield is desperate. A woman walking alone might be in danger.”

She was up again, mounting the top stair and facing him across the corridor. “But if I don't know anything, won't my ignorance keep me safe?”

“A fine question, though I wouldn't wager on the answer. Would you accept my escort if I place it on a personal level? If I would rather not trust to your supposed ignorance or to the logic of a killer, but to the presence of a brawny, well-mannered man at your side?”

Indeed he was, and her toes weren't the only body part clenching their interest at the moment. “You are very kind. Truly. But I always carry a knife.”

A curl of a smile played on his lips. “Do you really? Where do you keep it?” He lifted his hands. “Never mind; I do not need to know. I only pray that I shall never encounter it.”

“I cannot believe I would ever have to use it on you, Mr. Frost, though I'm willing to use it on your behalf.”

The slow smile grew. “I find myself more convinced of your virtuous works by the minute.”

“Ah, must I be virtuous?” On impulse, she flipped back her veil, and the world turned from gray to the color of life. Closing the distance between them—one step, then a small eager scoot of feet—she rose to her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his.

Mmm.
Mint and starch, wool and shaving soap. The old copper tub had been pressed into service the night before, and each member of the household bathed in turn. Now they all smelled the same, like wintergreen soap. Breathing him in, Frost seemed already a part of her, each breath shared as her lips parted beneath his.

She slid her hands up his arms, feeling the hard muscles bunch within their sleeves. He unfolded his arms into a gentle embrace, cradling her shoulders in his broad hands. A gentleman, holding her steady, letting her lead. But my
Lord,
he kept pace with her every movement, eager and teasing at once. Learning the shape of her with soft brushes of lips, with a touch of tongue to tongue that made her sex wet.

When a kept woman permitted a kiss, she knew it inevitably led swiftly to the final act. A protector could not wait to shove his cock in, to be brought to pleasure. But she was no courtesan to Benedict Frost, and this—ah, this was a kiss for its own sake. And another, and another.

She was the one to draw him closer, body fully against body, filling her hands with the wool of his coat and spreading her palms across his back. So solid; so strong. Her eyes closed, she surrendered to the sensation of his touch. Against her belly, his erection thickened, but he did nothing more than kiss, and kiss. Lips, tongue, sending each small note of her trespass ringing through her body in vibrant pleasure.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured. “Let me stay with you.”

A false note, like the clang of a cracked bell. Her shoulders went stiff; her eyes popped open.

No
. He didn't know her. He couldn't see her. With sweet words, he hoped to get what he wished—and she was letting it happen. She always let it happen.

She was such a fool.

“Mmm.” She feigned a low moan of pleasure, raising herself up onto her toes to press fully against him. Clutching at him, turning his body so they were both within the doorway to his bedchamber.

And then she shoved him, hard, making him stumble back into the room. She slipped away from him and eased the door shut while he still reeled.
Yes
. The key was in the lock, and she turned it.

For a moment, she hesitated outside the closed door, hand outstretched toward the key.

She had kissed him first, and now she could not remember whether she had meant it as a distraction or whether she had simply not been able to help herself. It had not ended as a trick, though; Benedict Frost was far too intoxicating. He left her, as did all the best spirits, with a pounding head and a desire to act wanton.

Within the bedchamber, all was suspiciously silent. She clenched her fists, pulling them back from the key, and returned to the stairs. The first step, and this time she skipped the creaking second one. Silence, silence.

And then from behind her came the clunk of metal onto a wood floor, the creak of hinges as the locked bedchamber door swung open. She turned to see Frost in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, one booted foot planted toe-down in a pose of ultimate nonchalance.

“Ought I to have mentioned I carry a knife, too? Though I suppose it's more of a stiletto.” He held up the small daggerlike blade in his right hand, gave it a little toss in the air, and caught it by its bone-colored hilt. “Just the right size for pushing a key from the lock.”

The sleek movement of his hands as he tucked the neat blade back into his boot was enough to make her lick her lips. He felt about on the floor and scooped up the door key, then straightened.

“Now, Miss Perry. Are we to search for stolen coins together or shall we shove each other about some more first? I'm perfectly happy either way.”

I might be, too,
Charlotte thought. For what seemed the thousandth time, she remounted the few steps she'd managed to descend. “I intend to leave alone.”

She faced him—looked up at him, really—expecting further protest. Instead, he caught her about the upper arms and swung her neatly about, like the step of a country dance.

And then he shut the bedchamber door with himself on the outside and her within.

She slapped the door hard with the flat of her hand. “Damn you, Frost. Let me out!”

His voice sounded through the wooden barrier, low and resonant. “Just because you locked the door doesn't mean I did. The only person keeping you in there is yourself.”

Chastened, she pressed at the handle and let the door swing open. The vicarage was old and not quite level, and doors moved as they wanted to.

This one wanted to get out of the way, to let Charlotte look upon Benedict Frost.

Not at his eyes, where one usually looked for the seat of a person's true feelings. His were distant and blank, though they remained as dark and lovely as they had doubtless always been. No, instead, she had to pick out signs from about his person, just as he picked his way through the world. That crimp of his lip; the arch of his brow; a tightness in the strong line of his jaw. Again, too, he had folded his arms.

“You are angry,” she realized. “You are quite good at not showing it, but you are angry indeed. Am I the cause?”

“It wouldn't be gracious of me to say so.”

“In other words, yes.”

The stern mouth relaxed just enough to allow the lips to curve. “Yes, then. I'm not sure why you won't agree to let me accompany you, Miss Perry, or what you think of me. Do you fear I'll steal your secrets, though I cannot see my hand before my face? Or are you simply certain I'll slow you down?”

She shook her head, not realizing until too late that this gesture would go unobserved. Each of his questions made her feel lower, until speech was impossible.

His arms relaxed, and he braced one hand against the white trim about the door. “Before I lost my sight, I saw a great deal of the world in His Majesty's Royal Navy. Some of it was lovely. War was terrible. And much of it was dull, days of nothing but sky and water and the same tasks over and over.”

He turned the key in his fingers. “No matter the setting, I never met anyone who thought little of me once he really knew me. Maybe one day you'll be the same.” Unerringly, he reached for her hand and pressed the key into it. “I'm fit to go where you do, Miss Perry. Don't forget that, please.”

He turned to go downstairs, leaving her with those parting words.

“How
dare
you.” The sentence issued from her throat like a growl.