The Houseparty (18 page)

Elizabeth opened her eyes suddenly as a small, almost in-
audible sound penetrated the heavy mists of sleep. She lay there in the soft, warm bed, every nerve
atingle
, her heart thudding,
her
palms damp. Then she placed the noise. It had been the unmistakable click of her heavy oak door shutting. But had it been shutting someone in or out?

Slowly, imperceptibly, she moved her head a fraction of an inch, peering through half-closed eyes. In the early morning light her room was blessedly deserted. Swinging herself out of bed with a sudden upsurge of energy, Elizabeth dashed to the door on icy bare feet, hesitating only a moment before flinging it open to peer down the long, dim hallway. Not a soul in sight, of course, she thought bitterly, shutting the door behind her and padding back toward the cold ashes of last night's fire. And in this inhospitable house she could scarcely console herself with the reflection that it had merely been a chambermaid seeing to her comfort by bringing early morning tea or reviving her fire. Thanks to Lady Elfreda, no doubt abetted by
Brenna,
no such amenities were offered Miss Elizabeth Traherne.
If she wanted a little warmth and something hot to drink (preferably Mrs. Kingpin's cof
fee), she would have to find it herself, despite the early hour and her foreshortened night's sleep.

When Jeremy had left, he had entrusted the gold-chased pocket watch that their father had bequeathed him into her care. Sumner had done his best to filch it from her, proclaiming that he had more right to it than she did and that old Jeremy must have preferred him to have it. But Elizabeth had remained steadfast, either keeping it on her person or hiding it from Sumner's acquisitive fingers. Pulling it out from between the mattresses, she gave a small groan. Six forty-five. She looked back at the bed longingly and then squared her shoulders. If she was to be of any use at all, she couldn't succumb to the pleasures of the flesh, the most enticing of which right now was her bed. She had been balked of her chance to search for the list last night. Considering everyone's nocturnal activities, she ought to be fairly certain they would all sleep late, and she could wander about this rabbit's warren to her heart's content without running into anyone more sinister than a sleepy scullery maid or two.

Dressing more for warmth and practicality than beauty in a round gown of soft green kerseymere, she performed a sketchy toilette, splashing cool water over her face and running a brush through her hair before pinning it back haphazardly with a few silver hairpins. There would be no one to impress at this hour of the morning, she assured herself, closing the door behind her with a silent click, the click reminding her of the noise that had first awakened her out of her sound sleep. Unless she ran into her early morning visitor, she thought, suddenly uneasy. She looked back toward her bedroom with longing and then shook herself. She had to do her best. If Jeremy could risk his life for her safety, could be lying dead or wounded in some French battlefield at this very moment, she could at
least . . .
at least . . .

Her thoughts faltered as the face of the drowned French spy returned with horrid clarity. She might be found down at
Starfield
Cove in the same condition, and who knew whose hands would send her.
Michael Fraser's?
The thought was almost too much to bear. The mysteriously familiar figure of Mr. Fredericks down at the beach was a far more acceptable choice for the role of villain and murderer. Surely there was something sinister in the set of his shoulders, something inherently evil in his stance? The eerie familiarity only added to Elizabeth's sense of impending danger.

"Well, Miss Elizabeth, I wasn't expecting to see you so early this morning," Mrs. Kingpin announced, placing a thick, steaming mug of coffee in front of her. "I would have thought you and Miss O'Shea would have slept late on such a day, especially after all the dancing and jollity of last night."

"Brenna's up?" Elizabeth questioned, taking a deep drink and burning her tongue.

"She was sitting here in the kitchen when I got up, just staring into the fire, poor thing. I think she's suffered a disappointment in love," Mrs. Kingpin confided, her many chins wobbling dolefully. "She wouldn't touch a bit of food and just wandered off looking like a lost soul, poor wee thing."

"Poor wee thing," Elizabeth echoed absently, taking a more cautious sip of coffee. "Did you happen to see which direction she went?"

Mrs. Kingpin shook her iron-gray head. "I was far too busy, Miss Elizabeth. I would expect she's in the library or wandering out in the front gardens."

"Then I'll head for the back gardens," Elizabeth announced, taking her mug and heading toward the door. "I am feeling equally somber, and I don't feel much like a
preprandial
conversation with
Miss Brenna
O'Shea. She's not the friendliest of companions in the best of circumstances, and I don't doubt she'll be positively deadly this morning."

Despite her words, Elizabeth made straight for the library. Even running into
Brenna
was worth the risk. What better place to hide an important paper than among other, innocuous papers? There must be a thousand places in the library to hide a purloined list of spies, and it was definitely a far more pleasant place to search before braving the rigors of the east tower. Elizabeth was not overly fond of heights.

Despite her hopes, she was doomed to deep disappointment. Adolphus obviously spent the bare minimum of time in the loftily proportioned room that served as a library. The elegant Louis
Quatorze
desk was bare of papers, the drawers were empty, and the shelves and shelves of hand-tooled leather books were coated with a film of dust that hailed from well more than a month ago, when the French spy had met his untimely end.
Brenna
was scarcely the housekeeper Lady Elfreda touted her as being, and the Wingerts were as ill-read as Elizabeth suspected. So much for this avenue of endeavor, she thought, closing the door behind her and heading toward the back gardens. Michael
Fraser
had been out there for a reason; perhaps in the calm morning light she could find some proof of his eventual destination, if worse came to worst, a stroll up the east tower might become a necessity. For Jeremy's sake, she reminded her flagging spirits sternly.

The air was damp and cool in the garden, the dew still fresh on the budding
philodendrons,
the neat little pathways wet beneath her
slippered
feet. It was going to be a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, and Elizabeth decided to allow herself a brief moment of peace before she continued her investigations. The marble bench glistened in the early sunlight, and Elizabeth sat, sipping at the now lukewarm coffee and staring meditatively into the bushes.

"I didn't expect to see you up and about so early," an endearingly familiar voice drawled in her ear, surprisingly close. Fraser's hand dropped lightly to her shoulder, and it was with a great effort that Elizabeth controlled her nervous start as she turned to look up at him.

"Damn and blast," she said distinctively, making no move to shake off his hand. "I hadn't expected to see you, either, after all your visitors last night."

He smiled
seraphically
and dropped down on the marble bench beside her, filching the mug of coffee with one deft hand. "Why is it such a great disappointment, my love? Were you expecting someone else at this ungodly hour?
The noble Captain St. Ives perhaps?"
He took a swallow of her coffee, and a pained expression clouded his dark blue eyes. "What in God's name is this wretched stuff?" he demanded weakly.

"Cold coffee.
And I am not your love, Captain
Fraser.
Nor
am
I Rupert St. Ives's love, either, for that matter. Not that it's any of your concern. I merely wished for a bit of solitude on this lovely spring morning. I find the atmosphere at Winfields a trifle oppressive."

"Not without reason," Michael replied, putting the mug down with a lingering shudder and possessing himself of one of Elizabeth's not unwilling hands. "But do
you know
,
I do not feel the slightest bit oppressed at this moment."

Elizabeth felt a treacherous melting inside her, a melting she knew was far too
dangerous,
and just what the devious Captain
Fraser
had in mind.

"Do you not?" she inquired in dulcet tones, snatching her hand away and drawing herself up. "Then I trust you'll enjoy yourself even more if
I
leave you alone. I find I have a sudden need for solitude."

She turned to leave him, intent on running as fast and as far from temptation as possible, when his hand shot out and caught her wrist, dragging her up against his strong, lean body as his other arm snaked around and imprisoned her.

"Solitude is the last thing I had in mind, Lizzie," he whispered in her ear. "And besides, I know perfectly well that if I were to leave you alone, you would be bound to stick your pretty little nose exactly where it doesn't belong.
A place that could bring great danger both to yourself and to me.
So you see"—his mouth came
hypnotizingly
closer to her breathlessly parted lips—"I have no intention of letting you go."

He made no move to kiss her, seeming content to let his mouth hover tantalizingly as his eyes bore into hers, an unreadable expression in their dark blue depths. Elizabeth knew she should offer some token resistance, a resistance she found curiously hard to summon.

"Michael," she said, as his hand reached up and deftly stripped the silver pins out of her hair, letting the waves tumble down her back. "You shouldn't—"

He didn't bother letting her finish the sentence. That tantalizing mouth hovered no longer but swooped down on her like a bird of prey, plundering her soft lips ruthlessly. With a small sigh of despair, Elizabeth slid her arms around his neck and closed her eyes, surrendering to the small death of his kiss.

He moved his mouth a fraction away, letting his lips brush against her closed eyelids, her cheeks, her trembling lips once more, as his strong arms pressed her soft curves closer against the muscular hardness of his body. Elizabeth was shaking from head to toe, and it was with an awed fascination that she realized he was shaking too.

"Lizzie," he murmured against the scented waves of her hair, and his voice was hoarse. "Lizzie, you must listen to me. It's dangerous."

At that precise moment a noise came to their ears, an unmistakable groan.
Fraser
stiffened, his body rigid, and Elizabeth, with belated good sense, ripped herself out of his arms.

"What was that?"

"It sounded unpleasantly like a groan,"
Fraser
replied dryly. As if in confirmation, another moan issued forth, and Elizabeth took off in the direction of the cry.

"Damn it, Lizzie,"
Fraser
cursed, and followed her into the bushes. "Have you got no sense whatsoever?"

Whatever Elizabeth expected to find, it certainly wasn't
Brenna
O'Shea sitting in an awkward little heap, her face unnaturally pale,
her
hand to her tousled head. Elizabeth flew to her side.
"Brenna,
are you all right?"

Brenna
looked up with her customary cool dislike in her green eyes. "Of course I'm not, Elizabeth," she said crossly. "I must have had a fainting spell. My poor head hurts abominably, my dress is grass-stained, and I dislike above all things people making fusses over me."

"I gather you'll survive," Elizabeth observed dryly. "What happened?"