A Matter of Principle (38 page)

“
I suppose that is true,” Sydney commented. She shrugged out of her dress and stepped out of her underskirt. She remained in her corset and shift, and sat at her dressing table to brush her hair. She kept an eye on Nicolas in the mirror. When his back was turned, she lifted her breasts so they all but fell out of her clothes.

“
How long will you and Vincent be gone this time?” she asked, twisting a little so the profile of her body was at its most alluring.

“
Uh…we… that is, about a week, after we drop you in Cheltenham.” His eyes were not on her face.

Sydney lifted her arms over her head and twisted her hair into a bun. “How far is it?”

“
It’s a full day to Manchester.” Nicolas turned away and stepped from his trousers. “And a full day each in Ellisville, Fox Creek, Glencoe, Sherwin and Kirkwood.” He hung them on a hook and grabbed his nightshirt. He slipped it over his head before he faced her again. “Kirkwood is but six or seven hours’ ride from Cheltenham.”

Though it reached his knees, his nightshirt did not hang straight down in front. Sydney ran her tongue over her lips and stood to unhook her corset. She dropped it on the rug, and began to massage her ribs through her thin linen shift, pulling the fabric tight over her bosom as she did so. She moved to the hearth and stood in front of the fire.

“
It always feels so good to take that dashed thing off!” she moaned. She ran her hands over her body and then stretched. She knew very well that the fire’s light would enable Nicolas to see her silhouette through the flimsy undergarment. “Might you hand me my nightgown?”

Nicolas moved toward her, the gown gripped in one outstretched hand.

“
Thank you,” she whispered. She pulled her shift over her head and stood, naked, in front of the flames. She made no move to accept the gown.

“
Sydney…”

“
Love me, Nick.”

His jaw clenched. His dilated pupils erased the blue in his eyes. His nightshirt tented in front of his hips.

“
It’s time, Nick.” Sydney stepped to him. She held his gaze and ran her fingers up his thigh, under his clothes, and stroked low on his belly. “It’s past time.”

He still did not move, though his breath quickened. She saw the beat of his pulse in his neck. She lifted his hand to her breast. She felt the heat of him through his shirt.

His eyes dropped to her parted lips. Slowly he bent to her will.

They made love as if it was their first time.

Hesitant, afraid of hurting her, afraid of what might come, Nicolas held back. Sydney dug her nails into him, rolled on top of him, pushed against him with such force that he was swept away. When he gave her all of himself once again, he left her wet, breathless, tingling. His climax was raucous and unrestrained. Weeks of self denial dissipated in a masculine fountain of released pressure.

Panting, he lay on the bed, limbs tangled with hers, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

“
You
are
a witch,” he groaned. “I said it before, but I am convinced of it now.”

“
I missed you, Nicolas.”

“
And I you,
min presang
.”

“
Do not leave me again.”

His kiss answered her. An hour later, he took her once more, without any hesitation.



Lesley daubed at Rodger’s face with a cloth and warm water, washing away dried blood and make-up. He had not yet asked for details, and Rodger was grateful for that. How could he face what had happened?

The rattle of the tea kettle on the stove pulled Lesley away. Rodger used that time to remove his corset and underskirt. He threw them on the bedroom floor, uncaring. He pulled a nightshirt from his dresser and slipped it over his head, then donned his wrapper.

Lesley returned with tea and biscuits with honey. “This will help, Merry,” he cooed.

“
Food always makes you feel better?” Rodger teased. He sat in front of his dressing table.

“
Something
in
your mouth always makes you feel better!” Lesley countered, and winked.

Rodger made the mistake of laughing, causing his lip to bleed again. He held the cloth to it while he dipped a biscuit in honey.

Lesley picked up the corset and skirt. He tucked them into the wardrobe. “Will you tell me, Merry?”

Rodger’s throat constricted; he swallowed his biscuit with difficulty. He spilled some tea into the saucer, blew on it, and drank it. Lesley served himself and waited, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“
I misjudged a man.”

“
Oh, no! Oh, Merry! And he beat you?” Lesley paled. “Does he know you? Are you in danger?”

Rodger put up one hand. “Lesley, please. This is humiliating enough.”

“
Of course, love. I shall be still. Only tell me everything.”

Rodger nodded. He ate another bite of honey-dipped biscuit and sipped more tea. He was stalling on purpose; he needed to get up his grit.

“
I had seen the man several times before. He has the look, you know? Slender, delicate, thinning hair but still in his twenties… Not married. Not attached. Dresses well.”

Lesley nodded his understanding. “His vocation?”

Rodger felt his face grow suddenly hot. “Secretary.”

“
Another indication, perhaps?”

“
I thought so.” Roger winced. “He is Hansen’s secretary.”

“
Good Lord on toast!” Lesley blurted. “What came over you?”

“
Lust.” Rodger shrugged. He could be honest with Lesley.

“
So when you got him alone, and revealed what you believed would be good news?”

“
He went berserk and attacked me.”

Lesley had already seen the torn dress and spoiled wig. “Will he tell anyone? Or did you give him the ‘I will incriminate you’ speech?”

“
I didn’t have time.”

“
He bolted?” Lesley shook his head. “That might be trouble.”

“
It’s worse, Lesley. So much worse…” Rodger’s breath came in unsteady gasps.

“
Merry?” he whispered. “Tell me, love.”

“
It seems he was being followed, watched. By Hansen’s valet.” Rodger huffed spastically a few times. “He brought Hansen. They pounded on the door—”

“
Merry! No!”

“
Vincent opened it. Hansen stormed in. Vincent told him everything. And there I was…” An explosive sob shook Rodger’s shoulders. “Oh, God, I had the torn dress, the wig on the floor, make-up smeared everywhere.”

Lesley moved to the dressing table bench and wrapped his arm around Rodger’s shoulders. “Let it out. It’s for the best.”

“
Nothing about tonight was for the best, Lesley,” Rodger groaned.

“
Is that all that occurred?” Lesley squeezed.

“
That was only the beginning.” The rest of the story came out in a torrent that Lesley could not staunch. The horrible truth about Edward, the attempted kidnapping of Siobhan and the attempted murder of Hansen. Then Hansen’s refusal to take revenge on Rodger and his repeated assertion that he was not a murderer. Finally Hansen’s revelation concerning the apartment across the hall from his.

“
Why did he give you that?” Lesley asked, surprised.

Rodger put one hand over his eyes. “Because I told him I was Herbert.”

“
What?” Lesley exploded. He jumped from the bench. “You did what?”

“
I know, Lesley. I cannot say what came over me.”

“
You will be ruined, now!” Lesley ranted. “He’ll not keep that delicious tidbit to himself!”

Rodger stood, swaying. “I’m going to sleep.” He stumbled to the bed and climbed under the quilted covers.

He heard Lesley collect the teacups and tray, rattling everything he could, as loud as he could. Rodger pulled the pillow over his face and curled into a ball. He did not relax until Lesley shut the chamber door. Emphatically.

Now he could think.

Hansen was disgusted by him. There was no mistaking that on any occasion they had met. But when faced with the legitimate opportunity to dispense with him for good, Hansen did not do so.

Why not? Was he playing a role? Or—and this thought nearly choked Rodger—was he truly a man of honor?

Rodger flopped onto his back. “He gave me the address. He told me about Beckermann,” he whispered into the dark. “And
Stafford
.” Rodger already knew about Sam
Stafford
. Their only encounter, under an assumed identity on his part, was both energetic and satisfying.

“
Why did he tell me?” Rodger muttered.
So I would ‘leave him the hell alone,’ of course
. It was pretty clear that if he didn’t, Herbert Q. Percival would be exposed.

But Hansen never said it. He merely offered the information, and left. At the end of the day, Rodger wondered, what sort of man
was
he?



Sleep eluded Rodger that night. Frustrated, he dressed and headed for the
Enquirer
. He let himself in and stood in the darkened office, inhaling the soothing scents of paper, ink, and tobacco.

By the yellow gaslight seeping through grimy windows, Rodger made his way to a wood bench against the back wall, behind the neat rows of desks. He stretched out on it, clasped his hands across his chest, and began to craft his thoughts into coherent sentences.

The thunk of the front door jolted him awake. Instinct warned him not to move. He breathed deeply through his mouth and tried to slow his racing heart. Boot heels scraped across the planked floor.

“
Lift it higher, will you?”

That’s Van Doren’s voice.

Lamplight danced against the wall above Rodger. He heard the soft whir and click of the safe’s lock. A screech of metal signaled its opening.

“
Here’s your hundred. Count it if you want.”
Van Doren.

“
I’m going to need more than that.”
I don't recognize that voice.

“
We had a deal.”

“
Setting the fire was one thing. But he killed two of my men.”

“
Your men were fools. I can’t help that.”

There was a pause.

“
Either you pay me, or I talk. You thought those other things sold papers? Nothing like letting on that the
Enquirer
editor wanted a candidate frightened out of the race!”

Another pause.

“
Here’s a hundred for the men, and a hundred more to ensure that I never hear from you—nor lay eyes on you—again!”

A dry chuckle.

The safe door squealed and clanked closed.

Rodger held still while the men left the building. He counted to two hundred before he dared to sit up. His thoughts twisted like laundry in high wind with the second astounding shock of the night.

What do I do now?

April 10, 1822

Cheltenham

Lily slumped on the settle in the Atherton drawing room and stretched her legs in front of her. The child strained constantly, pinned between her corset and her bladder. She was so tired of going to the privy.

Bronnie entered the room, Glynnis on her hip. “Oh! Good morning, Lily. I didn’t realize you were up.”

“
How can I sleep? Between the chamber pot and the child’s acrobatics?” she groused.

Bronnie smiled politely and spread a blanket on the floor. Glynnis was six months old and about to crawl. Bronnie placed her on the blanket and pulled a rattle from a nearby basket. With a drooly grin, Glynnis reached for it and promptly began to bang it on the floor.

“
There’s my darling,” Bronnie cooed. She sat on the floor by her daughter and collected her crocheting from another basket.

Lily watched the interaction with detached interest. This thing growing inside her was more important for the role it played in her life than it could be for its own sake. All she needed to do was produce an heir for Sir Ezra. Then she would be free to enjoy her life.

“
So the babe moves often?” Bronnie asked, eyes on her yarn and hook.

“
It gives me no peace,” Lily complained.

“
That’s good news. It means the child is strong,” Bronnie commended. “Have you chosen names, yet?”

“
Names?” The thought startled Lily. She had not thought of names because she had not thought beyond the birth.

“
Yes, of course!” Bronnie laughed. “I spent hours trying out different combinations, if it was a boy or if it was a girl.”

“
How sweet.”

“
I imagine you would consider the father’s name, if only for a second name.”