The Pleasure Trap (16 page)

He didn’t sound as though he admired her, and by referring to her as “Miss Dearing,” he had put some distance between them.

She was saved the trouble of apologizing when Anna Contini stopped by their alcove. She had a small wicker basket over one arm. Indicating the two plates on the sofa table, Anna said, “Have you finished eating, because if you have, I’ll just choose a few treats for my dear little donkeys.”

“Oyster tarts?” Ash queried when Anna swept the contents of his plate into her basket. “Your donkeys eat oyster tarts?”

“It’s amazing what donkeys will eat,” she replied serenely, now eyeing Eve’s plate. “Do you want that pork pie, Eve?”

“No, I was saving it for your donkeys.”

“So kind.”

As Anna moved away, Ash said, “That woman really is peculiar. Now, if I had the dressing of her…”

He looked at Eve, she looked at him, and they both smiled.

But Eve knew something that Ash did not. The treats were not for Anna’s donkeys but for their little runaway from Bedlam. She and Anna had put their heads together and come up with a plan to make sure that Nell was well supplied with food.

The ice was broken. Ash said, “Eve, can we get back to what we started out to do? You said you didn’t recognize the gardens. Can we go on from there?”

She was glad to follow his lead. “I made a few notes on my impressions,” she said, and she proceeded to withdraw a folded piece of vellum from her reticule. “And no snide remarks will be tolerated.”

“I thought you might have brought your little notebook.”

“That comes very close to a snide remark.”

“I’m all ears.”

She unfolded her page of notes, then sighed. “All I have are questions.”

“Fine. Let’s see if your questions are the same as mine.”

She heaved another sigh. “What happened when Angelo published his stories?”

“I can only speak for myself. I was incensed. He resurrected an old tragedy and implied that murder had been done. I wanted to wring his neck.”

“Maybe that’s why Angelo published those stories—oh, not to get his neck wrung, but to draw attention to accidents that were, in fact, murders.”

“What?”
He was scowling.

“It’s only an opinion I’m offering you,” she said quickly. “You asked me to read the stories and give you my impressions. Well, I don’t see those stories in the same light as you. They’re sad, yes, but I don’t think they are malicious.”

“They’re malicious if they’re not true.”

“I suppose so,” she said, and fell silent.

He thought for a moment as he stared at her bent head. At last, he said, “I don’t know why I’m taking my frustration out on you. You’re not telling me anything that hasn’t occurred to me, as well. I didn’t want to believe it, that’s all.”

His black brows were knotted tightly above his brooding eyes. Eve was wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. She was giving him her impressions, not her convictions. It seemed to her that all she’d achieved was to open an old wound. It must be devastating to think that his brother had been murdered.

His brows relaxed and he exhaled a long breath. “If your hypothesis is correct,” he said, “Angelo, for whatever reason, published his stories to draw attention to the murder of three innocent people. If I were the murderer, I’d be afraid of what Angelo would do next. I’d want to silence him before he exposed me.”

“Which would explain the attack on Lydia,” she added tentatively.

His unsmiling lips gradually turned up. “That’s a very neat theory,” he said, “but raises almost more questions than it answers.”

“I know,” she replied glumly.

“Such as, if Angelo believed murder was done, why didn’t he write separately to me, Colonel Shearer, and Lady Trigg to tell us? Why wait for us to read his stories in the
Herald
? And what if the
Herald
had not accepted his stories? What then? And why wait so long before he raised all these doubts in our minds?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I have no idea.”

“But the thing that troubles me most is why anyone would murder three innocent people all those years ago. I can’t speak for Colonel Shearer’s maid or Lady Trigg’s footman, but I know my brother. Harry was an invalid. What offense could he possibly have committed to rouse the wrath of a killer? Until that question is answered, the villain in my mind is still Angelo.”

She spread her hands. “I have no quarrel with that. His name is so firmly fixed in my brain as the villain that I’d find it almost impossible to change it. But that doesn’t mean to say that my mind is closed to other possibilities.”

“Point taken.” He got up and held out his hand. “We’ve been cloistered here too long. Let’s see what the youngsters are up to.”

The youngsters were dancing their feet off, and not only the youngsters but those who were young at heart. As she and Ash stood watching at the edge of the dance floor, Eve let her gaze wander. She was doing it again, trying to focus her charisma as though it were a compass and could direct her to the villain. Angelo.

Her mind was suddenly engulfed in a whirlwind of seething emotions—excitement, the thrill of the chase, and anticipation of the final victory. For a moment, she thought she was in Angelo’s mind, but the vision of Sophie Villiers took possession of all her senses. There was fury there, too, the fury of a scorned woman seeking revenge.

“Ash,” said the Fury, as she deliberately stepped in front of him, “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Her voice was light and teasing. “Rumor has it that you’re in rake’s heaven with your own private harem of lovely ladies.”

Eve looked at Ash. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His mind was closed to her. As for his expression, he looked vaguely bored and not the least put out by Lady Sophie’s remarks.

“And you are?” said Lady Sophie, addressing Eve.

“I’m one of the harem,” Eve quipped, and felt a blast of temper pass right through her.

“I beg your pardon,” Ash said easily. “I thought you knew each other. Lady Sophie, may I introduce Miss Dearing? Eve, this is Lady Sophie Villiers.”

Eve smiled, Lady Sophie smiled, but her hungry eyes were fixed on Ash as she speculated on who had replaced her as his mistress and was now sharing his bed.

The thing to do now, thought Eve, was block the lady from her mind. It was unscrupulous to eavesdrop on the thoughts of innocent, unsuspecting people. She was discovering that it was easy to be virtuous when there was no temptation, and the temptation here was irresistible. If Ash had a mistress, she wanted to know who she was.

Lady Sophie’s gaze never wavered from Ash’s face, and Eve saw him through the other woman’s eyes.

That crooked smile, which added to his charm in Eve’s opinion, had taken on a wickedly sensual slant. His eyelids seemed heavier, and his eyes were veiled by the sweep of his thick lashes. Eve’s heart began to beat a little faster. Lady Sophie did not see Ash Denison as a well-bred man of the world. She saw him as a seducer, a dangerous predator like herself.

Lady Sophie’s lips were moving, but Eve wasn’t listening to the banal words. She had a vision of the lady—for want of a better word—in nothing but a flimsy nightgown that plunged to her navel and clung sinuously to every voluptuous curve. The image changed when she reached for Ash and collapsed with him on the bed! And what a bed it was, a great vulgar affair with crimson velvet drapes adorned with gold frogging and tassels. They were in Lady Sophie’s bedchamber, and Eve was reliving the memory as though she were right there.

This had gone too far. She had to break away. Her one thought was to escape and fill her lungs with pure fresh air.

She said the first thing that came into her head—something about having to find Miss Claverley—and hurried away. She didn’t know where she was going and she didn’t care. Her vulgar curiosity had opened a Pandora’s box. She felt as though she was going to be sick. She was hurt, angry, and completely humiliated. She might as well have been a fly on the wall for all the notice those two paid to her. They had eyes only for each other.

Eve wasn’t up to talking to anyone, and she crossed the hall to a small antechamber that served no useful purpose as far as she could tell. She had hardly stepped inside the room when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Sucking in a startled breath, she whirled to find Ash facing her.

“Eve,” he said, “what the devil got into you? Why did you run off like that?”

She flung the words at him before she considered the wisdom of what she was saying. “I make it a rule never to get between lovers. Not that my presence was noticed. What was it your mistress said? I’m only one of your harem.”

His anger was equal to hers. “No, Eve. You said that. And Sophie isn’t my mistress. We parted company a long time ago.”

So it was true. All that she’d seen was true. Her palm itched to slap him. Since no ready response came to her, she glared at him in silence.

His eyes narrowed on her face. “I’m asking myself why you should care. You’ve never made any secret of the fact that you want me to keep my distance. I might have believed you, except that your performance with Sophie just now…well, it leaves me to wonder.”

“What?” she asked, bringing her chin up.

“Are you jealous, Eve?”

She wasn’t jealous. She was furious. This unconscionable rake had worked his way into her good graces, and she’d foolishly allowed herself to forget what he was. Just a short time ago, her heart had gone out to him when he’d related the touching story of his loveless childhood. She doubted that he had a cousin called Morag. What a fool she was to be taken in like that. He loved women. He knew how to please them, how to woo them, how to seduce them.

“What I was,” she said coolly, “was offended. Lady Sophie was obviously repeating gossip. If that’s what everyone thinks, that you’re hiding out here with your own private harem, then maybe it’s time you went back to your rooms at Grillon’s.”

“It’s a joke, Eve. Nobody takes it seriously.”

“I’m sure I’m speaking for my friends when I say that we prefer not to be the butt of such ill-bred humor.” She stopped when she realized she was beginning to sound self-righteous.

He touched a hand fleetingly to her cheek. “What a pretty speech. Oh, I’m sure you meant every word, but your hasty flight from Sophie will provoke more ill-bred humor than Sophie’s remark that no one overheard but we two.”

She didn’t want to argue with him; she didn’t want to talk to him. All she wanted was a little time to herself so that she could nurse her wounds in private.

“No one will think any such thing,” she declared.

She meant to quit the room with all the dignity of a duchess, but his hand snaked around her wrist and dragged her back. In as curt a tone as she had ever heard from him, he said, “You had better unfreeze your expression if you want to avoid malicious tongues. Put a smile on your face and allow me to escort you to your aunt.” When she stood there fuming, he went on, “I shall mention an outing to the theater and you will endeavor to sound pleased at the prospect. Understood?”

“Understood.” She spoke through her teeth, but she dipped him an elegant curtsy and smiled into his eyes to show him that she could playact as well as he.

He offered her his arm. When she placed her fingers upon it, he dipped his head and whispered in her ear, “I would have been disappointed if you had not been jealous, Eve. No, no. You promised to smile. Shall we go?”

Color high, she allowed him to lead her from the room.

Chapter Thirteen

The reception was over. All the guests had gone home. Even the effervescent Liza had lost some of her fizz and had happily trooped off to bed, leaving her aunt and friends to enjoy a few minutes’ relaxation over a glass of sherry amid the debris in the dining room. Everyone agreed that Liza had acquitted herself well at her first major hurdle of the Season. She was vivacious, she made friends easily, but she also made time for the older generation.

“That’s what she calls us,” said Anna. “I overheard her telling that young man she had taken under her wing that some of the older generation were planning a trip to Hatchard’s Bookshop and she felt obligated to go, too.”

They had a good laugh about that, especially as Eve had yet to reach her twenty-fifth birthday.

Anna said, “They seem to think that anyone past one-and-twenty must be in her dotage.”

“I didn’t know,” said Lydia, “whether to laugh or take offense. She sat out several dances just to keep me company.”

Anna added, “She did the same with that nice young man who has a slight limp and doesn’t dance. Jason Ford, that’s his name.”

Miss Claverley put in, “Young girls always take a fancy to soldiers, and a limp, however slight, is seen as a badge of courage.”

Lady Sayers beamed. “I must say that my niece is greatly improved since I last saw her. She was a precocious child, you know. I suppose that comes from being spoiled by parents who are so much older than she. ‘Hot at hand’ was what my late husband called her. But now, well, she is a darling.”

“I wonder,” said Miss Claverley, and all ears pricked as though the Delphic oracle had spoken.

“Well, don’t stop there, Millicent,” said Lady Sayers. “Have you had a premonition?”

“Of course not,” responded Miss Claverley tartly. “I don’t have premonitions. It’s just an observation. Precocious children don’t usually turn out to be darlings. That’s all I meant.”

Eve added diplomatically, “Liza is high-spirited and that is part of her charm, but my aunt and I like her immensely, don’t we, Aunt Millicent?”

“Of course. I like a girl with spunk.”

“And Liza has plenty of that,” Lady Sayers declared, and everyone laughed.

When they had finished their sherries and were wending their way upstairs, Eve kept up her smiles and her end of the conversation, but as soon as she entered her room, she collapsed against the door and let out a weary sigh. Keeping up appearances could be horribly draining, but she thought she had carried off her part rather well. She’d been on tenterhooks, fearing someone else might invade her mind uninvited. She need not have worried—nobody did, not even Ash, and he was the one person whose mind she would not have minded dipping into.

Where were her scruples now?

She was sorry she had ever left Henley and sorrier still that she’d decided to set a book during a girl’s first Season. Her so-called “gift” was turning out to be more of a liability than a help. She didn’t know how to control it. It was all very well for her aunt to say that that would come in time, but time was running out. That’s what she felt whenever she read Angelo’s stories, and she’d read them many times. Time was running out. How could she explain what she sensed to Ash? He wanted her to come up with clues, not some vague feeling that was not based on logic.

Her eye was caught by the nightgown her maid had laid out for her, a voluminous cotton monstrosity with a frilled yoke that buttoned to the throat and long, equally voluminous sleeves that buttoned at the wrist. In short, it was the kind of nightgown her grandmother might have worn.

Eve crossed to the bed, swiped the cotton shift from the covers, and shook it out for a better look. A family of tinkers, she thought disgustedly, could easily use it as a tent if they propped it up with a pole and pegged down the hem. There were two more just like it in her dresser.

She crushed the nightgown into a ball and tossed it onto the nearest chair. If the fire had been lit, she would have tossed it on the coals. When she’d come up to town to have a few gowns made up, she hadn’t given a thought to nightclothes. But that was before she’d seen the vision of Lady Sophie and Ash in that moment of passion. Sophie Villiers’s nightgown was so skimpy, Eve wondered why she had bothered to wear it.

And why had she been given a peek into Sophie Villiers’s mind? What was the point of that? She wanted to do great things with her gift, important things, such as save lives and unmask murderers. Lady Sophie was hardly in that class.

Peeved, out of sorts, she wandered over to the bed, hoisted herself up, and flopped back against the pillows. She shouldn’t blame Ash for something he couldn’t control. It was Sophie Villiers’s memory she’d been sucked into. But even knowing that, she couldn’t help what she was feeling.

Out of her depth.

She wasn’t up to exploring why she felt so let down, so she forced her thoughts to something else—the conversation she’d had with Ash about Angelo.

There was something about those stories that reached deep inside her and touched a chord, but the harder she tried to reach it, the further it moved away. She hadn’t lied to Ash. She didn’t recognize either the stories or the gardens. Then what was she reaching for? Or was it reaching out to her?

Ash…

Maybe it was Ash who was reaching out to her, not the man she knew now but the elder brother she’d taken such a liking to in Angelo’s story. Her next thought made her chuckle. Maybe she was supposed to save Ash from Lady Sophie. Now wouldn’t that be something?

She cast her mind back to the conversation they’d had about his early years. He’d told her that he hadn’t lied, only embroidered the facts a little. When she compared his version of events to Angelo’s story, she would have to say that the embroidery was in how the story was told. Ash could never be serious. He always made light of everything. It was his way, she supposed, of protecting his privacy. She had her own ways of keeping people at arm’s length. In spite of what he said, no one wanted to be an open book that anyone could read at will.

All the same, it would be comforting to have one special person to whom she could unburden her heart and tell all her secrets. She wasn’t that brave, so she could hardly expect Ash to be different. For a time there, she’d felt close to him—until she’d mentioned his mother.

Thoughts like these always brought her own mother to mind. Antonia believed she’d found her soul mate in her husband, and look what a disaster that had turned out to be.

Eve sighed and turned on her side. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Outside the Manor, concealed in a stand of leafy laburnums, Nell bided her time. The last carriage had left a long time ago, and most of the groundsmen had gone off duty. Only the night porters were still up, and they were inside the house. She knew their routine now, knew when it was safe to leave her cover and find the basket that would be waiting for her in the old rabbit hutch.

It was hunger that made her leave the safety of her burrow and look for food. The big house frightened her. Something bad had happened here, but that was a long time ago. Maybe the bad man had been caught and taken away. Each time she came to the house and no bad man appeared, she felt a little safer.

She buttoned Eve’s coat up to her throat and pulled up the collar. Half crouched over, she left the trees and wended her way toward the house, taking extra care not to be seen when she passed the side door with its shining lantern.

Her ankle had healed, but she still limped when she tried to run. She felt a kinship with the animals of the wild who were too old or frail to outrun the hunters. The thought made her heart begin to race. Fear was never far from her mind.

Her hearing was acute, and though the night was far from silent, she could distinguish that one odd sound that she hadn’t expected to hear—the stealthy tread of a boot on gravel. Sucking in air, she sank down, her eyes desperately searching for the source of the sound. Long minutes passed, then a shadow moved in the herb garden, close by the rabbit hutch. He was lying in wait for her! The bad man was lying in wait for her!

Numb with fear, she inched away. Her hand closed around a rock and she grasped it automatically. All her senses were alive to her danger. Eve was still up. There was a light in her window. Eve…

When the shadow burst from cover, she straightened and leaped away. He didn’t expect her to run to the house. As she passed Eve’s window, she threw the rock as hard as she could manage.

She was in the ballroom, and girls in white dresses were twirling around the floor with their handsome partners. At one end of the ballroom were French doors giving onto the terrace. It would all end on the terrace. Someone threw a stone and cracked the window.

Eve came awake on a cry.

Dexter was sitting at the side of her bed, whining and pawing her hand. Disoriented, she looked around her chamber. The nightgown she’d tossed away was still lying on the chair. She was on top of her bed, still fully dressed. The candle on the mantel was still burning.

Her sense of relief was palpable. It was only a dream, only a dream.

When Dexter whined again, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and scratched his ears. “It was only a bad dream,” she said. “And why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with the groundsmen patrolling the grounds?”

She looked at the clock. Two hours had passed since she’d come upstairs.
Two hours.
How could that be? She must have been flitting in and out of sleep. Of course, Dexter wasn’t needed to patrol the grounds at this time of night. Only the night porters would be on duty patrolling the corridors.

Something wasn’t right, something about her dream. The window had cracked. That had never happened before.

She flew to the window and examined each small pane. Then she found it, a small crack beside the sneck.

Dear God, what was going on?

A sudden shaft of fear almost brought her to her knees. She was inside his mind. Shadows. Swirling gusts of white-hot rage. A labyrinth waiting to swallow her up. She had to fight it! She was in control. If she wanted to break free, she had the power to do it.

He was outside the house, searching for the girl.

What girl? What girl?
her mind screamed.

The girl in the blue coat. She could ruin everything. She knew too much. She was a witness. He had to find her and silence her. Silence them all. No one ever crossed him and lived to tell the tale.

Eve’s mind flinched as shadows formed behind her eyes, then faces emerged, the faces of his victims—not three victims as she might have expected, but more than she could count. When his voice came to her, loud and clear, she surged to her feet.

Now I see you, little bitch!

He was hunting Nell! He’d recognized the coat.
In the dark?
her mind screamed. Nell must have come too close to one of the porch lanterns when she came for Anna’s basket of provisions. Oh, what fools they’d been to put that poor child at risk.

She had to stop him.

Moving quickly now, she went to the clothes press and found a dark coat to conceal her pale gown and stout shoes in case she had to make a run for it. A few steps took her to the escritoire, where, since the attack on Lydia, she kept her pistol, primed and ready. She knew how to handle a pistol. And if worse came to worst, a shot from her pistol would rouse the house or the porters on duty. But she could only bring the porters to her side as a last resort. The last thing she wanted was to save Nell, only to have her sent back to Bedlam.

“Dexter, heel!”

When Dexter obeyed, she opened her door a crack and peered out. There were no servants about. Good.

“Softly now, Dexter,” she said, and they flitted from the room.

“Eve?”

The voice that came to her in the darkened corridor belonged to her aunt. Now what should she do?

“Eve?”

Aunt Millicent’s voice had risen a notch. Eve managed to say calmly, “Dexter is scratching to get out. Go back to bed. I’ll have one of the night porters take care of him.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. This is something I have to do by myself.” She brushed by her aunt, hesitated, then turned back. “Look,” she said, “there’s a girl in trouble out there. Nell. She’s the runaway from Bedlam. I’m going to help her. I know what I’m doing. Trust me. I haven’t time to explain.”