Too Wicked to Love (11 page)

On the ground floor, she went to his father’s study and opened the door, then indicated that he should go in first. He stepped inside. Even after four years, the scents of lemon and beeswax could not mask the sweet scent of the pipe tobacco his father had favored. A lump formed in his throat, and his eyes misted. How many times he had stood right there, either to visit with his father or receive his lectures? The room looked exactly the same, as if Lord Phillip St. Giles would return any moment.

“I have allowed the staff to clean in here,” his mother said, remaining in the doorway, “but that is all. Nothing has been removed.”

“Where—” He had to clear his throat. “Where did he keep the notes?”

“Here.” She moved to the desk, pausing for just an instant to touch the spectacles sitting beside the lamp, before she opened a large drawer. “This was his journal. He noted everything in here.” She took a thick, leather-bound book from the drawer, the pages dog-eared and ragged in places. “There were also these letters.” A stack of correspondence tied with a ribbon came next. “Something in one of these letters or this journal sent him to Elford-by-the-Sea.”

John took the stack of letters and turned it over in his hand. “Elford-by-the-Sea? Where is that?”

“Somewhere in Cornwall. It is where he died.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, the vicar from Elford-by-the-Sea came by here a few days ago.”

“The vicar? That is odd. What did he want?”

“I do not know. I was not at home; the maid informed me. He probably had your father’s name and was looking for a donation. ” She picked up the journal and pushed it into his hands. “Guard this, John. It might be the key to your freedom.”

“I will.” Gripping the book in one hand, he tucked the packet of letters into his coat pocket with the other. “I should go, Mama, before the servants start speculating.”

She came and kissed him, then looked into his eyes. “Be careful, John. You are all I have left in this world. Do not give up on the truth.”

He forced himself to back away a step, far enough that he could not touch her. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she whispered.

He turned and hurried from the room that looked and smelled so much like his father, suddenly eager to get out of this house he had once loved so well. This house where he had
been
loved. A footman saw him coming and fetched his hat, then he was forced to wait at least five interminable minutes outside in the cooling evening air while the young groom brought his gelding to him.

He tucked the book into his saddlebag, then mounted quickly and tapped his horse with his heels, determined not to look back. But as he came up on the bend in the drive, he did indeed stop and look over his shoulder. There she stood, watching him from the window. She waved, but he did not return the gesture. Instead, he turned his back and urged his horse to a trot down the drive, around the bend, and out of sight.

Perhaps it was cruel to leave her like this. Perhaps he should have allowed her some hope that he might someday be vindicated. But despite his father’s research, was there any hope for a miracle that would restore his life to him? He doubted it. And he preferred that she remember him leaving under his own power, alive and healthy and well.

Because the alternative was watching him hang for the murder of his wife.

“T
his play is going to be a disaster unless someone can locate Mr. Ready,” Sir Harry said. “We simply cannot rehearse without him. Has anyone seen him today?”

Genny looked around at the others, hoping someone would admit to seeing the elusive man. But no one raised a hand or said a word. And that worried her.

Last night, she had waited for John to come back from chasing Annabelle’s attacker, but dinner came and went without him, rendering her extra efforts on her appearance wasted. By the time the evening came to an end—after Genny’s adequate performance at the pianoforte and Annabelle’s overly dramatic recitation of poetry—Genny had begun to worry. Had he found the brigand only to be done in by him? The possibility grew more plausible as the big grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight.

Then, in the wee hours, she heard footsteps in the hallway. Slipping from her bed, she went to the door and opened it a crack—just in time to see John slip into his room at the end of the hall.

So, based on last night, she knew he was alive. But why was he not at the rehearsal?

“I know he came in last night,” Virgil finally said. “I checked with the stables, and his gelding, Veritas, is there. Perhaps he simply got back so late that he is still abed?”

“Oh, do you suppose he caught the horrible man who tried to capture Annabelle?” Dolly asked.

“That would certainly be a relief,” Sir Harry said.

“I’d like that,” Annabelle said. “I hate being stuck in the house.”

“But darling,” Dolly said. “You haven’t been stuck inside the whole time. Just this morning, we went to the village to see the new shipment of silk that came in from London.”

“And we had four footmen with pistols,” Annabelle complained. “People were staring.”

“If people were staring, that makes it less likely our villain will try again,” Sir Harry said. “All the better.”

“I just hate being trapped.”

Sir Harry gave Annabelle a tender smile. “That is because you are a free spirit, Miss Bailey.”

Annabelle blushed and lowered her gaze.

“I would hate to wake the man if he was chasing bandits all night,” Virgil said.

“But we cannot rehearse without him,” Helen said.

“Send a servant to see if he is awake,” the admiral suggested. “Perhaps we can postpone rehearsing until later this evening.”

“I hate the idea of putting off the rehearsal again,” Dolly said. “I just have my heart set on performing the play at the picnic! And we only have two days left.”

“The admiral is right. Perhaps it would be a good idea to send a servant to look in on him,” Virgil said.

“Look in on whom?” John asked, entering the gallery.

“There you are, John!” Annabelle cried, clapping her hands together.

“Look in on you, John Ready,” Virgil said. “We were worried about you. Did you catch that bandit who tried to steal my Annabelle?”

“Unfortunately, no. No one I spoke to could identify someone who even resembled the fellow Miss Bailey described.”

“Now what do we do?” Dolly asked. “Keep Annabelle locked in her room?”

Annabelle folded her arms. “I refuse to be a prisoner.”

“It’s for your own good, sweet pea,” Virgil said.

“I won’t do it. Think of something else.”

“John,” Virgil said, “I would appreciate it if you would come to my study after we’re finished here so we can talk about the best way to handle security and the traveling arrangements for the Statons’ dinner party this evening.”

“Of course.”

“Excellent!” Sir Harry said. He clapped his hands rapidly three times. “Attention, everyone! We are going to start with the scene where Bella tells her parents of her love for Frederick. So Mr. and Mrs. Bailey, over here. Miss Bailey, right here, please. Excellent. Ready? Everyone have their pages? And . . . begin!”

As the Baileys began to read through their scene, Genny edged closer to John. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

John turned toward her, surprise on his face. “Why would I not be?”

“You were gone so long last night. I was worried.”

His gaze lingered on her for a long moment. She took a deep breath, deliberately thrusting forth her bosom so it strained against the bodice of her morning dress. He glanced down, hesitated, then jerked his gaze away, clenching his jaw.

She smothered a smile. Trimmed with green ribbon, the white cambric morning dress was one of her favorites. Her father had often told her it looked stunning on her in contrast with her dark hair and green eyes, but most gentlemen admired the way the material clung to her female form.

Apparently, so did John.

She leaned closer as if to hear the performers better, tilting slightly, clutching her pages of the script. Her elbow brushed his, and she pulled away with a little “oh” as if it had happened accidentally.

He whipped his head around again. The look in his eyes made it hard to breathe.

“Have a care, Miss Wallington-Willis,” he murmured. He swept his gaze over her, once more pausing on her bosom before turning away.

How could he remain so calm? She practically shook with the heat that was rising between them. If someone were to speak to her right now, she did not think she would be able to answer coherently. Her limbs tingled, especially where she had touched him. Didn’t he feel the same? Or were men different?

She frowned. She had not considered that men might be different from women in these matters. Perhaps they had more control over themselves.

“Miss Wallington-Willis.”

She startled as Sir Harry called her name. “Yes, Sir Harry?”

“I would like you and Mr. Ready to read the scene where Malevita is watching Frederick secretly and confessing her love aloud to the audience.”

“Of course.” She flipped through her pages, looking for the scene.

“Mr. Ready, there are no words for you in this scene. Malevita has come upon you asleep in the forest.”

“I see.”

“So if you would consider lying down on this blanket I took the liberty of setting out?”

John stared at the blanket for a moment as if it were the enemy, but then he nodded and lay down right there on the gallery floor.

“Miss Wallington-Willis, whenever you are ready,” Sir Harry said.

Genny moistened her suddenly dry lips and stepped forward.

“Perhaps Malevita should enter from the right,” Sir Harry suggested.

Genny nodded and moved to the right of the makeshift stage area. John lay “sleeping” on the floor of the imaginary wood, and as “Malevita” came upon him there, Genny could not resist the chance to let her eyes roam over him in a way she had not been able to do overtly at any other time.

“O handsome warrior. O noble prince. My blood burns for thee,” she recited. “Look upon him, all you sun and moon and stars, and know he is my love. My mate. My future king.”

“Excellent,” Sir Harry murmured.

“O love that lives as a flame inside me,” she continued, walking around him, her skirts brushing his legs, his arms. She pretended not to notice when the edge of her skirt swept over his face, but his eyes popped open, and he gave her one, searing look that made her toes curl in her shoes. “Thou art my only reason for living. My heart beats for thee.” She laid her hand on her bosom and tapped three times to signify her heartbeat. Then she dropped her hand, letting her fingers slide swiftly over the curve of her breast as she did so, a movement so smooth that the other players did not catch the wicked flirtation.

Only John saw.

She slid her gaze over his tense body, his fisted fingers, his clenched jaw—and smiled.

“Excellent!” Sir Harry said, applauding.

The others applauded. too, and Genny gave a curtsy, her cheeks warm with pleasure.

John got to his feet, turned away from her, and said, “What is next, Sir Harry?”

“The scene where you and Bella meet by the stream, and you tell her of your undying devotion.”

John nodded. “Very good.” He glanced at Genny. “Please step aside, Miss Wallington-Willis.”

His dismissive tone rankled, but she was not fooled. She had taken control of the situation, aroused him, and he did not like it.

Her plan was working perfectly.

What had gotten into that clever minx? He knew when a woman was deliberately flirting with him, and Genny had come after him with her full arsenal loaded and ready. The searing glances, the “accidental” touches, even the clothing she wore . . . All of it sent one unmistakable message.

Take me.

His body heard that message loud and clear and wanted to respond in the most decisive of ways. Hunger hummed throughout his body, held in check only by his will—a will that was rapidly giving way to the bombardment of subtle invitations sent in his direction. By the time they finished the rehearsal—where Genny appeared with him in scene after scene as Malevita, declaring her love for Frederick in the most passionate of verses—she had him so stirred up that the slightest glance from her might push him over the edge.

But he would not let her get to him. He had seen these tricks before; Elizabeth had been a master at the art of seduction. He would not be ruled by his own lusts, no matter how difficult it was to resist.

And it was bloody difficult. Genny was nothing like Elizabeth, and that made her all the more enticing.

“Good work today,” Sir Harry said, as they finished the last scene. “This production will be ready for the picnic in no time at all.”

“Thank you so much for writing the play, Sir Harry, and for acting as our stage manager,” Dolly said.

“My pleasure, I assure you. Mr. Ready, you did quite well at your role. Are you certain you do not want to be in the final performance?” Sir Harry adjusted his spectacles and looked at him with expectation.

“I do not,” John said.

“Very well.” Sir Harry looked a bit disappointed, but John was not about to take the chance of someone recognizing him. “Then I will see you all tomorrow at the same time to go through the play once again. Admiral, I trust you will remember your lines this time?”

Genny’s father bristled. Silver-haired and bearded, the admiral was built like a bull but was also considered one of the greatest logistical minds of their time. “It was one line, Sir Harry. On my honor, I will not forget it tomorrow.”

“See that you do not,” Sir Harry said, and looked down at his notes.

The admiral’s eyes widened at the chiding tone. Then his lips curled into a sneer that, had Sir Harry been the ship of one of England’s enemies, would have seen the scholarly baronet scuttled to kindling.

Helen must have sensed the danger, for she patted her husband’s arm. “We should get changed for dinner now,” she said, then murmured something in her husband’s ear. The admiral seemed to calm at that, but he still sent a baleful look at the baronet as his wife turned him away. “Genny, dear, are you coming?”

“Yes, Mama.” Genny lowered her gaze in ladylike modesty and followed her parents at a slower pace. The snowy cambric of her skirts moved with the sway of her hips in a manner John found both hypnotic and erotic.

“Are you certain you won’t come with us, Sir Harry?” Dolly asked, as Virgil came over and took the handles of her wheeled chair. “They invited you, too.”

“I have already conveyed my regrets to the Statons,” Sir Harry said. “Unfortunately, I had a prior engagement that cannot be rescheduled.”

“What kind of engagement?” Annabelle asked.

“Annabelle!” Dolly exclaimed. “That’s none of your business!”

“I was just asking,” Annabelle said with a slump to her shoulders.

“Do not scold her, Mrs. Bailey,” Sir Harry said with a smile. “Her natural ebullience is part of what makes your daughter so charming.”

“You’re way too kind,” Dolly said.

“Takes me less time to get ready for these things,” Virgil said to the men with a grin. “I’ll meet you in my study in an hour, John.”

“Agreed.”

“Good, that’s all settled,” Dolly said, as Virgil started to wheel her away. “Come along, Annabelle. Time to get dressed for the dinner party.”

“At least I’m getting out of this house,” Annabelle said, her lower lip poking out in sulky rebellion as she fell into step behind her parents.

“And if you don’t stop acting like an infant, you may never get out again,” Dolly scolded. “Land sakes, child!”

Their voices muted as they left the gallery, but Sir Harry remained where he was, looking at the door where they had departed. When he turned back to John, there was a softness in his eyes that disappeared almost immediately.

Sir Harry and Annabelle? John noted the information and set it aside for later.

“I wanted to thank you for watching over Annabelle while I was gone last night,” John said.

“No thanks are necessary. I like to do my part.” Sir Harry gathered together the pages of his script and collected the blanket from the floor. “So you found nothing?”

He’d found more than he bargained for, but not about Annabelle’s attacker. “That is correct.”

“My old friend Raventhorpe is a crafty one. He was fond of finding simpletons to carry out his orders.” Sir Harry flashed a grin. “Must be why he chose my company so often.”

John laughed and fell into step as the baronet started for the door. “You, Sir Harry, are much more clever than most, I would wager.”

Sir Harry gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk. “I never wager.”

“A good policy.”

“However,” Sir Harry said, bringing the conversation back on topic, “I would imagine that if Raventhorpe did hire someone to kidnap Annabelle, that person would not be the sharpest sword in the armory. That should make it easier to find him.”

“Because he will make a mistake?”

“Exactly!”

“I do not suppose you know the names of any of Raventhorpe’s former cohorts?” John asked, as they traversed the hallway and reached the stairs.

“Alas, no. He did not take me into his confidence. In fact, I do believe he thought me something of a featherbrain.” He started up the staircase.

John stopped short, his hand on the rail. “You? Featherbrained?”