The Pleasure Trap (22 page)

“He is a serious young man,” Eve allowed, “but that’s to be expected in someone in his profession.”

Liza blew air through her nose. “Oh, he can be quite charming when he wants to be, but only if you are his patient. Now, if I were to break a leg—” She left the sentence hanging. Coming to herself, she smiled at Eve. “Will you listen to me? Anyone would think that I was sweet on old sobersides. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have plenty of friends who enjoy my company. I can’t expect everyone to like me.”

“No, indeed,” Eve managed.

One of those young friends was waiting for Liza at the front door.

“You remember Jason Ford?” said Liza.

Eve acknowledged his bow. She remembered he was a former Special Branch agent who had set up on his own. She didn’t think he was working today. From the comments that were exchanged, it was evident that Liza had invited him to be their escort.

Lady Sayers and Miss Claverley were waiting for them in the carriage, and who should be on the box but Ash’s coachman! Eve noted also that the footman who held the door for them was none other than Reaper, Ash’s valet. He shut the door after she, Liza, and Mr. Ford had stepped into the carriage.

It seemed that Ash was taking no chances with his little flock of pigeons. She was glad that Reaper was there to guard Lydia and Anna, Hawkins was driving the coach, and Mr. Ford was in the carriage. For her part, she’d left Dexter with the bootboy, with instructions to Andy to patrol the upstairs corridors—just in case.

But who was looking out for Nell?

There was nothing like a shopping expedition to raise a lady’s spirits, Lady Sayers declared, and after a few hours of sampling the exclusive shops in Bond Street, everyone agreed with her. They returned home footsore, purses lighter and big smiles on their faces. Not unlike, Eve thought, the night they’d returned home from Vauxhall.

The stray thought took the glow from Eve’s smile, and when they retired to their various chambers to gloat over their purchases, she didn’t even bother to unpack the red satin pumps that had made her mouth water when she’d caught sight of them in the shop window. She was thinking of Lydia and the man who had attacked her.

Angelo.

Ash had asked her to read Angelo’s stories with the hope that something untoward would strike a wrong note, so for the rest of the afternoon she went through them line by line. Nothing occurred to her. She wasn’t done yet. She came at the stories again, this time filtering them through her aunt’s interpretation of her dream. It made no difference. She could not find one single signpost that connected them to her dream, except the gardens themselves. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had to go on, and a plan had formed in her mind, a plan she was eager to share with Ash. Then there was Nell. Her situation preyed on her mind and she wanted to hear what he had to say about that, too.

It wasn’t until after dinner, however, that Ash returned to the Manor and her chance came to speak to him alone. She met him at the back door.

“Ash,” she said, and that was all she managed to say.

He clamped his arms around her, swept her off her feet and swung her into a clump of ivy in the darkest corner of the courtyard. His weight pinned her to the wall. She made a small, incoherent sound that he swallowed with an all-consuming kiss. She tasted the brandy on his tongue, she smelled the clean scent of his soap, felt the heat of his body as he rubbed himself erotically against her, and she collapsed against him.

She wasn’t given time to think. He opened the bodice of her gown. Warm hands molded to her breasts, and she felt her nipples hardening as he rubbed his thumb over each sensitive crest. Her head was swimming, her legs were buckling, she was mewling like a kitten. But when he began to raise her skirts, sanity returned in a rush.

She gave him a hard shove, but all that achieved was that he raised his head and looked down at her.

“Ash Denison,” she panted. “What has got into you?”

“Don’t you like it?” His smile was almost a leer. “Better get used to it, my love, for I’ve no desire to act like one of your tame heroes. What did you call them—accessories?”

She pushed at his shoulders and managed to get some breathing room. He was laughing. She was panting. “This isn’t the time or place to play the fool!” she shrilled. “I have something
important
I want to say to you!”

“You’re right. Let’s make love and we’ll talk later.”

When he fondled her breasts again, she threw back her head and stifled a whimper. If this didn’t stop, someone would catch them in flagrante delicto, just like the dairymaid and the stable hand in the story he’d told her. And wouldn’t that be good for a laugh?

She fought her way clear of his arms and sucked air into her lungs. “Will you behave yourself?” she finally got out. “I want to tell you about Nell.”

That sobered him. In an instant, he changed from a teasing, laughing cavalier into an alert, narrow-eyed predator. “What about Nell?”

“Anna found her with the donkeys. She’s safe for the present, but how long will that last?”

She was having trouble buttoning her bodice. When he brushed her fingers aside and did it for her, she wondered, fleetingly, how many bodices he’d buttoned and unbuttoned in his time.

“Let anyone lay a hand on Nell,” he said, “and they’ll have to answer to me for it. I have friends in high places who owe me favors.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I stopped by the offices of the
Herald
on my way back here and asked Brand to use his influence to have me appointed to the board of governors of St. Mary’s of Bethlehem.”

She was awed. “Can he do that?”

“Brand is well known in government circles.”

A bubble of happiness started in her chest, spread out, and gurgled from her throat. “You are one of the most generous-hearted men I know,” she whispered.

When it looked as though he was going to kiss her again, she ducked under his arm and quickly entered the house. He was right behind her. She slowed her steps in the long corridor that led past the kitchens. Servants were hard at work, cleaning up after dinner.

“There’s something else,” she said. “I want to show my father Angelo’s stories. He may find something in them that I’m missing. He was, after all, sought after as a landscape gardener before he retired. And Brighton isn’t so far away.”

“I’ve been thinking along the same lines. I could post down there and be back in time for dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh, no, this is my idea. And my father may be reserved with a stranger.”

Ash nodded. “Fine. Tomorrow we’ll go together.” He cocked his head to the side. “Now can we get back to the conversation we were having?”

“We were having a conversation?” She gave him a sideways glance. “Is that what you call it?”

“Damn right I do! The language of love doesn’t need any words. I’m fluent in it, but you could do with a little practice.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Why don’t I bathe and change out of my riding clothes, then meet you in your room in, say, half an hour?”

At the foot of the servants’ staircase, she turned to face him. “It’s out of the question,” she said.

“Eve—”

“It’s my turn to sit with Lydia tonight. And even if it were not, you’ve moving too fast for me, Ash Denison. Besides, I need a clear head when I meet with my father and stepmother tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’ll do my best to be an accessory.”

He watched her mount the stairs with a crooked half smile on his lips. She wanted an accessory? He’d be a loaded pistol.

Chapter Eighteen

She hadn’t expected to travel to Brighton in Ash’s curricle. Brighton was almost a five-hour drive away, and the horses would need to be changed frequently. There was also the problem of the vagaries of the English weather. The sun was shining at breakfast, but who knew how long the fine weather would hold? A closed carriage would at least give them some protection from the elements.

It turned out that there was method in Ash’s madness. There was room for only two people in the curricle, and he told her there was much he wished to say to her in private. This gave her a fit of the shivers. She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to marry him. So, they’d made love. He did this sort of thing all the time. He hadn’t mentioned the word
love
and neither had she. Did he feel obligated to offer her marriage because she wasn’t one of his dashers? That wasn’t a good enough reason to marry.

Besides, she had her own reasons for hesitating. She would only marry someone with whom she could be truly herself, without evasions. Ash was an intelligent man. He must have worked out that she was every inch a Claverley. The question was, could he accept it?

“Let’s wait till you meet my father and Martha before we talk,” she said.

Much to her surprise, no one objected to Ash’s arrangements, not even her aunt. Eve had thought someone would raise the point that an unmarried lady did not travel with a gentleman unchaperoned. From the sly comments and winks, however, it was gradually borne in on her that everyone suspected they were going to see her father to ask his permission for them to marry.

She was thin-lipped when Ash flicked the reins and his team of bays jolted into motion. “What about your groom?” she said. “Isn’t Hawkins coming with us?”

“My dear girl, what need have I for a groom? I’m with the intrepid Mrs. Barrymore, and she can outshoot, out-fence, and outgroom any man alive. Isn’t that so?”

She remained silent, though she was tempted to laugh.

He was vastly amused. “Tell you what. If we get into trouble, you can act as my groom.”

Eve couldn’t hold on to her misgivings, not when the sun was shining and the breeze buffeting her cheeks was warm and fragrant with the scent of apple blossoms.

“Did you bring the newspaper cuttings?” he asked.

She patted her reticule. “Right here.”

The Brighton Road was the most famous and fashonable stretch of the King’s Highway in England, and Ash kept Eve entertained by pointing out various places of interest—where battles of old or duels were fought, where the famous of a bygone era lived or were buried, and where the Prince Regent was wont to lay his royal head before the new road to Brighton cut the duration of the journey from fourteen hours to its present enviable position.

“Without the Prince Regent and the Pavilion,” he said at one point, “this would still be a country road passable only by oxen pulling carts.”

The last stop on their journey was at the Crown in Cuckfield, where they dined on sandwiches and cake while the horses were changed. Twenty minutes later they were on the road again, and, from this point on, Eve became more and more withdrawn. Ash watched her for some time, then finally captured her hand and squeezed it.

“What’s wrong, Eve? Why the sighs?”

She looked guilty. “Was I sighing?”

“Not audibly, but I have an inner ear that is sensitive to your change of moods.”

She tugged her hand free. “You’re beginning to sound like a Claverley.” When his only response was a chuckle, she went on, “I was wondering whether I should have let my father know that we were coming. Martha doesn’t like surprises.”

“We’re not here to see your stepmother but to see your father.”

“Martha never lets him out of her sight.”

“You worry too much,” he said. “I’m the darling of society—your words, not mine. I’ll charm Martha out of her sullens.”

“Oh, you have nothing to fear. Martha stands in awe of people with titles.”

Because he was attuned to her moods, he made an effort to draw her out. She answered his questions but sparsely. He learned that the house in Brighton had never been her home but was acquired by her father after his marriage to his second wife.

“That’s when I went to live with my aunt,” she said, “when they moved to Brighton.”

“You didn’t get along with the new Mrs. Dearing?”

She gave a grim little smile. “There were faults on both sides. It began the day she told me to call her ‘Mama.’ I suppose she meant well, but I couldn’t do it. It felt as though I would be betraying my own mother. After that, things went from bad to worse.”

“And your father?”

“He was never there. He traveled a great deal in his work, so Martha and I were left to our own devices. It was a great relief to us all when I went to live with my aunt.” She pointed to a gap in the trees. “Look, we’re almost there.”

Ash decided this was not the time to awaken sleeping ghosts, and he obligingly looked where she pointed.

The house was on the eastern edge of Brighton, a red brick Queen Anne dwelling set in an extensive acreage of trees and shrubs. Formal flower beds marched with military precision across the sweep of lawn that led to the front door.

“Martha,” said Eve, “is partial to the gardens of Versailles.” She gestured to the flower beds. “This is her idea of Versailles in miniature. Papa, on the other hand, prefers the English style.”

Ash looked at the flower beds and suppressed a shudder. “Poor Versailles,” he murmured.

He drew up outside a stable that was meticulous in every detail, even to the groom who took charge of his team. In his friendly way, Ash tried to banter with the groom, but all he got in return was a look of faint surprise.

The front door was opened by a maid with a funereal expression that was reflected in her mode of dress. For a moment, Ash wondered if there had been a death in the family. The mistress, they were told, was indisposed, but the master was in his study.

The same military precision that was to be seen in the flower beds and stable was also present inside the house. Ash noted the formal groupings of tables and chairs, the uniformity of the rooms, the symmetry of the furniture and ornaments. There wasn’t a thing out of place. He was tempted to drop his hat and gloves on a chair, except that he wanted to make a good impression.

“No need to announce me,” Eve told the maid briskly. “My father knows who I am,” and on that note of authority, she pushed into the room.

The study had a French door giving onto a sheltered courtyard with a fine view of a wilderness of trees, with no flower beds in sight. Set out on the courtyard were wicker chairs and small tables, and this was where Dearing ushered them after the greetings were over. It was the one place, Dearing said with a laugh, that he was allowed to smoke his pipe without bringing his wife’s wrath down on his head.

He was, by Ash’s reckoning, in his late fifties, but he looked older. He walked with a cane on account of his gout, and there was a decided awkwardness in his gait. If there was a resemblance between Eve and her father, he couldn’t see it.

Eve and her father spoke in a general way for some time, catching up on each other’s news, then Ash answered the question in Dearing’s eyes and explained what had brought them to Brighton.

“I’m trying to locate the person who wrote these stories,” he said. Eve fumbled in her reticule and gave Ash the cuttings. “His name is Angelo,” Ash went on, “and we believe that these stories incited someone to commit murder.”

Eve interjected, “The woman who was attacked is a friend of mine, Papa, a fellow writer, and he tried to kill her.”

Dearing’s eyes were cloudy with confusion, but he took the cuttings Ash offered him. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Read the stories, sir,” said Ash. “They all take place in gardens. Perhaps there is something in them that will strike a chord with you.”

Dearing nodded, but he set the cuttings aside and reached for his pipe. It was unlit, but he put it to his mouth and drew on it without appearing to realize that he was sucking on air.

Eve flashed Ash a look of desperation. To her father, she said, “I wondered if Mama had ever visited these gardens. They’re all close to London. Perhaps she took me with her.”

Dearing seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts.

A note of urgency crept into Eve’s voice. “Papa,” she said, “whatever happened to Mama’s notebooks? If she had visited these gardens, she would have made notes on them.”

He frowned faintly. “You asked me that before.” To Ash he said, “There was so much confusion when Antonia died. I asked the landlord at the inn to send on her boxes, but they never arrived. It seemed he asked the Messengers to deliver them. I had to chase them down eventually. Everything was there except for Antonia’s notes. No one knows what happened to them.”

“You mean the porters lost them?” said Ash, puzzled.

“No, no. The Messengers. You remember them, don’t you, Eve? Thomas Messenger and his wife and children. They were staying at the same inn as you and Antonia. We’d had a falling out, so I was surprised he even agreed to take charge of Antonia’s boxes.”

He shook his head. “What a waste. He was a talented landscape gardener and would have gone far, but he drank too much. I did my best for him, but he wasn’t dependable. In the end, the only friend he wanted was in a bottle. Even his wife and children came to mean nothing to him. Sad, isn’t it?”

This long explanation seemed to tire him out and his eyelids drooped.

“Do you remember them, Eve?” Ash asked.

“Vaguely.”

“Where are they now, Mr. Dearing?”

“Who?”

“The Messengers.”

“Oh, we lost touch with the family a long time ago.” He darted a glance through the French door. “Does Martha know you’re here, Eve? You know she doesn’t like to be kept out of things.”

“Father,” said Eve desperately, “read the cuttings, then I’ll go and see Martha.”

“Oh, I will. I promise.” He puffed quite happily on his empty pipe. “The worst thing I ever did was retire,” he said. “Martha isn’t like Antonia. She’s not interested in landscape gardening, so she never accompanied me on any of my commissions. It was a lonely life for her. If we’d had children, things might have been different.” He seemed to drift off again, then slowly came back. “I never meant to give up my business entirely, but Martha wasn’t well, and by the time I was ready to take up where I’d left off, other, younger men had passed me by and I was no longer in demand. Oh, I still get the occasional offer, but I can’t seem to muster the interest to take anything on.”

He stared vacantly into space, then gave a sudden start. “Eve,” he said, “you know what she is like when she is taken unawares.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed on the other man’s face. He was beginning to understand why Dearing had difficulty in holding on to one thought for any length of time.

“Eve,” Dearing repeated. “Did you hear me? Tell her we have company. She’ll want time to make everything nice and tidy.”

Eve would have argued the point, but Ash silenced her. He got up and said in his easy way, “I think that’s an excellent idea.” He escorted Eve to the door. In a soft undertone, he went on, “It’s better if you do as your father says. He seems to be distracted with the two of us asking questions. Leave him to me. I know what needs to be said.”

She seemed to be reluctant to go, so he gave her a little push and shut the door on her.

Dearing, meanwhile, was on his feet. “My pipe has gone out,” he said. “I’ll just go and light it.”

“Sit down, Mr. Dearing!”

The note of command in Ash’s voice had Dearing stuttering a protest, but he did as he was told.

Ash took his own seat and pinned his companion with a hard stare. “How long,” he said softly, “have you been addicted to opium?”

Dearing’s jaw dropped. “Opium? No such thing! I take the odd drop of laudanum to relieve my headaches, that’s all.”

“How often do you smoke your pipe?”

When the older man bit his lip, Ash nodded. “Your tobacco is laced with laudanum, isn’t it? That’s an old trick. You may be able to fool your wife and daughter, but I’m not nearly so gullible.”