Meet Me at Midnight (17 page)

As he gingerly lifted the next sketch from the box, Sinclair paused. Sitting in what looked like a ballroom, vague faceless forms surrounding her and no doubt representing her multitude of suitors and admirers, was Lady Victoria Fontaine. Even her image had the power to make his heart pound.

Their lovemaking hadn’t quenched his urge for her at all, and neither had any of their arguments or her obvious disappointment in him as a husband. But at the moment that wasn’t his priority, and he couldn’t allow it to become so. He wasn’t certain he knew how to become any sort of proper husband, anyway.

In the portrait, a wisp of curling dark hair had strayed across her brow. The expression on her smooth, oval face bespoke her humor and intelligence,
while the twinkle in her eyes said that she knew exactly what the men surrounding her wanted. Sinclair ran his finger across her brow, but the lock of hair remained elegantly out of place.

Thomas had chosen to sketch her. Had he been one of her admirers? Sinclair didn’t think so—not a serious one, anyway, or he wouldn’t have seen the knowing humor in her gaze. She’d said she and Thomas had been friends, but not close ones; given her natural compassion and the way she seemed to inspire everyone’s confidences, it wasn’t surprising that Thomas had told her that he drew. Had he told her anything else, perhaps something she hadn’t even realized?

When he’d finished gazing at the sketches, he carefully returned them to their box and fastened it closed again. They were the last and most personal items he had of his brother, and he decided to have most of them framed and added to the portrait hall at Althorpe. Thomas would no doubt have been embarrassed to see his private sketches so prominently displayed, but Sinclair wanted them there, wanted the reminder of his brother’s life in something other than accounting ledgers and official papers.

He was debating whether to make a late afternoon visit to Pall Mall and the clubs or to continue the enormous task of sifting through the items in the attic, which he’d begun shortly after he arrived and discontinued when Victoria had joined the household. Now that she knew what he was doing and why, attempting to keep it a secret didn’t make much sense any longer. The attic seemed more likely to bear fruit, and he pushed away from the table, only to feel something rubbing against his ankles.

Startled, he looked down to see a large white and
gray feline twining about his legs, purring hard enough to make the round, plump body shake. “Well, hello there, Lord Baggles,” he said, reaching down to scratch it behind the ears. “You’ve forgiven me, I see.”

By way of answer, the cat leapt onto his lap and curled into a large ball of soft fuzz, his purring gaining strength until it sounded like the grinding stones of a flour mill. Sin continued scratching the feline, willing to delay climbing about the attic for another few minutes if it put him in good graces with Lord Baggles, and thereby his mistress. Dimly he heard shouting out in the street, but it sounded like a vendor’s argument, and he ignored it.

The library door slammed open. “Trouble, Sin,” Roman said and vanished again.

“Damnation. Sorry, old boy.” Sinclair lifted the un-protesting cat over to the couch to continue his nap in peace.

He could hear Roman’s heavy footsteps clunking down the stairs, and he followed the valet to the first floor. Half the household’s servants milled about in the foyer and the front rooms that overlooked the street. As he neared the entry, Milo turned and saw him.

“Oh, thank goodness, my lord. Lady Al—”

Vixen
. Sin pushed past him and strode out to the front steps. Out in the street his petite wife stood, her arms folded, directly in the path of a rickety milk cart. At the front of the cart was quite possibly the most dilapidated, underfed pony he’d ever set eyes on. And sitting in the driver’s perch, an equally squalid-looking man sat glaring at Victoria.

“I said, get outta the way, miss!” he bellowed. “I’ve deliveries to make.”

“I don’t care what you have to do,” she retorted. “You have no right to beat that animal in that awful manner.”

“You try making old Joe go, miss. You’d be encouragin’ him, too.”

“I would not! I do not beat animals.”

Sin clearly saw the angry, defiant gleam in the cart driver’s eyes, and he saw the hand tightening on the whip. With an oath, he vaulted down the shallow steps. Before the driver could do more than give him a surprised look, he jumped up onto the nearest wheel, reached over, and grabbed the whip. “As much as she dislikes seeing animals hurt,” he said in a low, taut voice, dark anger coursing through him, “you can’t begin to imagine what I would do to you if you injured her.”

The driver swallowed nervously, his dirty Adam’s apple bobbing. “I wasn’t…I’m just trying to make a living here, m’lord, and she won’t get out of the way.”

Sinclair hopped back to the ground. “I believe Lady Althorpe’s objection is to your method of handling your animal, not to the way you make your living.”

“But—”

“How much, then?” He sensed Victoria moving up to stand beside him, but he kept his attention on the driver.

“‘How much?’” the man repeated.

“For the horse, cart, and milk.”

“A…a lord with a milk cart? You’ve gone mad.”

“I’ve been meaning to take up a hobby. How much?” Sinclair said crisply.

“I couldn’t part with old Joe and the rest for less than ten quid,” the driver said, folding his own arms.

The price was outrageous, but Sin wasn’t in the
mood to argue, or to let Victoria be disappointed in him yet again today. “I’ll give you twenty quid so you can get a decent animal you won’t have to beat. Is that fair enough?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“Then get down from there. Roman, pay the man, and send him on his way. Grimsby, take the beast around back and unharness and feed him. Orser, put the milk into one of my carriages and take it to the nearest orphanage, with Lady Althorpe’s compliments.”

A chorus of “Aye, my lord” greeted the orders, and he turned to face Victoria. She wore a surprised look on her face, her stance hesitant and defiant at the same time. No doubt she expected a lecture on the idiocy of facing down a large, burly man carrying a whip—no doubt she’d heard such lectures before.

“Old Joe,” Sin said slowly, “does not get to live in the conservatory with the rest of your menagerie.”

She stared at him, then her violet eyes began to dance. “Fair enough. Shall we go in?”

“By all means. And Lord Baggles is snoring in the library, by the way.”

“I’ll remove him at once.”

“Why?”

She stopped on the bottom step, looking him in the eye from her elevated perch. “Are you doing this just so I won’t be angry with you?”

“Of course I am. Is it working?”

Victoria grinned. “I’ll let you know.”

Seizing the opportunity, he closed the last few inches separating them and kissed her. Victoria froze for the space of a heartbeat. He half thought her next action would be to kick him in his sensitive parts, but
he decided it was worth the risk. To his relief, though, her hands slid up over his shoulders and her lips deepened their embrace with his.

Delight and arousal coursed through him at her passionate response. Before she could come to her senses and remember what a boor he was, he swept her up into his arms and climbed the remaining steps into the house.

“Sinclair, what are you doing?” she murmured against his mouth, chuckling breathlessly.

“Taking you upstairs.”

“But the servants are watching.”

“Are you shocked, my dear?”

She shook her head, snuggling closer against his chest. One-handed, she began untying the intricate knots of his cravat. Sinclair was beginning to think the morning room was a viable alternative when a loud, masculine laugh stopped him cold.

Victoria still in his arms, he whipped around to see a tall, muscular figure silhouetted in the front doorway. “Kingsfeld,” he said, relaxing as much as his aroused body would allow. Thank God for Victoria’s long skirts.

“Sin Grafton, as I live and breathe. Weren’t you doing the same thing the last time I saw you?”

Victoria lifted an eyebrow. “Really.”

Pleased as he was to see the Earl of Kingsfeld, at the moment Sinclair wouldn’t have wept a tear if he fell down the steps and broke his neck. “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” he said smoothly. “That was quite a while ago, when I was very young and stupid.”

“Your taste in females, though, remains intact, boy. Introduce me to this goddess.”

“Right. Kingsfeld, my wife Victoria, Lady Althorpe.
She twisted her ankle. Victoria, Astin Hovarth, the Earl of Kingsfeld. A friend of my brother’s.”

“Lord Kingsfeld,” the Vixen said in her most charming voice, smiling. “I’m certain we’ve seen one another before. I’m glad we’ve finally been introduced.”

The large earl swept a bow that lowered his head to the level of his knees. “The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

At the moment Victoria was inclined to agree with him, because obviously she and Sinclair weren’t going to have any. She ached for Sin; she had since she’d met him. One time in his arms was not nearly enough to cure her of her need to be near him, and she was loathe to lose this opportunity.

Victoria glanced again at Kingsfeld and inwardly sighed. If he had been a friend of Thomas’s, then no doubt Sinclair would want to speak to him. “I think I should rest my ankle in the morning room,” she announced.

“Of course,” her husband said promptly.

While Kingsfeld relinquished his hat and gloves to Milo, Sinclair carried her into the morning room and set her gently on the couch. Before he could completely escape, she grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him down for another slow, deep kiss. He sank onto the edge of the couch, her face cupped between his long-fingered hands.

“So, Sin,” the earl said, entering the room, “I received your note. What was it that you wanted to discuss with me?”

Frustrated humor in his whiskey-colored eyes, Sinclair straightened. “Comfortable?” he asked her solicitously.

“No.”

Sin cleared his throat. “I’ll fetch your shawl. Be with you in a moment, Kingsfeld.” With that, he bolted past the earl toward the stairs.

“No hurry. I’ll just get acquainted with Lady Althorpe.”

Trying to focus on something other than how splendidly her husband kissed, Victoria studied Astin Hovarth as he poured himself a glass of port from the decanter beneath the window. He had Sin’s height but was bulkier through the shoulders and chest than her husband, more like a draft horse than a thoroughbred. Light blue eyes studied the room briefly before they returned to her, and she remembered that it had likely been better than two years since he had last set foot in Grafton House.

“Does anything seem different?” she asked, as he seated himself in the chair closest to her.

“Well, Thomas never had a lady as lovely as you on his couch. I would have noticed that.”

She smiled. “Surely Lord Althorpe wasn’t completely celibate.”

“Hm? Oh, no. But his taste was obviously much more dull than his brother’s.” He toasted her with his glass. “You’re Vixen Fontaine, aren’t you?”

“I was,” she said ruefully.

“Once a songbird always a songbird,” he said congenially. “Sin always did have an eye for the pretty chits.”

“Did he now?” she returned. “He seems very unlike h—”

“I was surprised to see him back in London. Thought by now he’d have set himself up in Paris with some French skirt or other.” He chuckled to himself.
“Thomas always used to say he never knew where Sinclair would turn up.”

She wondered at that. Thomas seemed to have had a better idea of Sin’s location than anyone but his fellow spies. Apparently he hadn’t passed the information on to Lord Kingsfeld. “I like unpredict—”

“No doubt he thought that being married to the Vixen, he wouldn’t have to settle himself down by much.”

The earl continued to chat obliviously, while Victoria tried not to scowl at him. She didn’t like being interrupted, but even worse was being ignored. And for him to be speaking about Sin’s, well, sins, as though she weren’t even present, wasn’t at all polite. Finally he wound down his speech about the different hotels and inns found in Paris and looked at her.

“Would you like me to fetch you a nice fluffy pillow for your ankle? You’re being very brave not to cry, my dear.”

“I’m fine, thank—”

“In my experience, most chits spring leaks at the drop of a flower petal.” He took another sip of port. “Indeed they do. Were you saying something?”

Sin strolled back into the room, her green lace shawl bunched in his hands. “Here you go.”

“Obviously nothing important,” Vixen returned cheerfully, standing and taking the wrap from her husband’s surprised fingers.

“What’s not important?”

“Anything I say. I shall leave the two of you to chat.”

“But your ankle,” he said, frowning at her.

“It feels much better now,” she said demurely and left the room to go find Lord Baggles, who at least
noticed whether or not she was in the room.

Lord Kingsfeld stayed for dinner. Victoria joined the two men, arriving at the table as late as possible. She ate as quickly as she could, determined not to utter an unlistened-to word in the earl’s presence.

“Your wife is such a pretty bird,” Kingsfeld said, smiling at her as Milo refilled his glass of wine. “Even her voice is like a song.”

Victoria dug into her roasted potato to hide her deepening annoyance. Obviously Lord Kingsfeld thought she was an idiot. Like so many men, he saw her face and form, and nothing else. If she had been certain that Sin had all the information he needed from his so-called friend, she would have taken great pleasure in enlightening Kingsfeld about just how much in error he was.

“Have you opened Hovarth House?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes, just this morning. I hadn’t intended to spend much time in London this Season, but I couldn’t resist your note.”

“I’m pleased you’ve come. You’ve already been most helpful.”

Kingsfeld smiled. “Then I am pleased, as well. And you are to be congratulated. A pretty, proper wife—so difficult to find these days.”