A Rake's Midnight Kiss (18 page)

“We’ll see.” He bowed and for the first time, kissed the back of her hand. “Good evening, Genevieve.”

He turned to go. The urge to wipe her hand against her skirts was overwhelming. If ever she’d considered marrying Lord Neville, her reaction to his touch promised a lifetime of misery if she did.

D
espite the robberies, the intrigue surrounding the Harmsworth Jewel, and the looming scandal over her authorship, Genevieve refused to alter her routine. That would assign the forces massing against her too much power. On the morning after the break-in, she set out on parish duties. The villagers were accustomed to the vicar’s daughter catering to their daily needs while Dr. Barrett remained in scholarly isolation.

It took her nearly an hour to realize that she had a shadow. As usual, Sirius gave the game away. She emerged from discussing church flowers at Miss Brown’s cottage to a greeting from the dog.

“Hello, Sirius.” She stepped into the street and patted him. She wasn’t sure what she thought about the nefarious Mr. Evans, but she couldn’t argue that he had a very nice dog. She grabbed Sirius’s collar. Taking him home wouldn’t disrupt her morning. “You shouldn’t be wandering the village.”

Sirius focused upon her, as if questioning her decision to haul him away. The cause for his bewilderment was soon
clear. Glancing over his head, she saw a tall, lean man sauntering toward her.

Dear Lord, could she never escape Mr. Evans? She knew how the local foxes felt in hunting season. Irritation pricked her skin as she unwillingly noted the swing in his stride and the glinting eyes below his stylish beaver hat. He was dressed for Mayfair, not Little Derrick.

Releasing Sirius, she straightened without smiling. “Aren’t you engaged with my father? Something about Edward IV?”

His lips twitched. “There are so many blasted Edwards. Almost as bad as the Henrys. How is a fellow to keep track of these deuced dead chaps?”

His appearance of intellectual laziness didn’t gull her. “What are you doing here?” she asked in an uncompromising tone.

She’d never encountered him in the village before. Usually she could count on some peace when he worked with her father each morning. Apparently not this particular morning, curse him. Her grip tightened on the basket of provisions for the parish poor.

He shrugged. “I wanted some fresh air.”

“Of course you did,” she responded sarcastically, marching toward the next parishioner on her list, Mrs. Meacham with her arthritis and poor eyesight.

He fell into step beside her. “Let me take that.”

She considered objecting, then decided that if he wanted to lug the heavy basket, it was the least he could do in return for hounding her. “Here.”

Another twitch of those lips. To think yesterday she’d extolled his sense of humor. He had no right to mock her. At least she wasn’t a thief. “Shouldn’t you be hobnobbing with the duke instead of slumming it in Little Derrick?”

He cast her a thoughtful glance. “You know, Miss Barrett,
this is a public road and I’m perfectly free to use it without your permission.”

“Except you’re following me.”

He laughed softly. “A chance meeting.”

“And I’m a Dutchman.” Now she’d reached Mrs. Meacham’s house, she extended her hand for the basket. “I’ll see you at the vicarage.”

He looked up at the half-timbered façade. “Ah, dear Mrs. Meacham. I believe she received a letter from her son in the navy yesterday. She’ll need someone to read it for her.”

Genevieve gaped in astonishment. She had no idea that he’d infiltrated the village. Just what was he up to now? “How do you know that?”

“My crystal ball?”

“Don’t be absurd. And please go away.”

He still looked cheerful. Of course he was cheerful. She’d long ago realized that needling her was his favorite pastime. When he wasn’t climbing through ladies’ windows. “I promised I’d visit this morning.”

She glared at him, ignoring the way that Miss Smith simpered at handsome Mr. Evans from across the road. Charlotte Smith was welcome to him. Lying weasel he was. “When did you meet Mrs. Meacham? She never leaves her house.”

He shrugged again. “The vicar and I called the other day.” He paused. “She didn’t seem to mind.”

“I’m sure she didn’t.” Arthritis hadn’t affected Mrs. Meacham’s appreciation for a fine-looking man.

The affectionate understanding in Mr. Evans’s smile was almost as irritating as his teasing. She had a horrible feeling that he saw beyond her frosty exterior to the confused girl within. The girl who had relished kissing him. The girl who wondered if she could lure him into kissing her again.

The girl she didn’t want to acknowledge, even in the quiet
reaches of the night when she lay awake, restless and longing for sin.

She made a low sound of displeasure and just managed not to stamp her foot. Nobody but Mr. Evans set her temper flaring like this. “Oh, you might as well come in.”

He swept his hat from his head and knocked. “Thank you.”

She regarded him with irritation. “As if I could keep you out.”

This time he gave her a full smile and she blinked at the brilliance. She was always conscious of his exceptional looks. His spectacular appearance somehow seemed part of his deceit. But now and again, his masculine beauty struck with the force of lightning through a stormy sky.

“Of course you can’t keep me out,” he said in a low voice. “Haven’t you realized that yet, Genevieve?”

Before she could object to his use of her Christian name, before she could muster any response at all to his discomfiting question, the door opened and Mrs. Meacham’s maid ushered them inside the neat cottage. Sirius trotted after his master, at home here as he was in the vicarage.

“Ah, Miss Barrett, Mr. Evans, how kind of you both to call.” Mrs. Meacham struggled to stand, but Richard moved quickly to take her hand. She settled back into her chair with a concealed wince. “And Sirius. We saved you a nice bone from last night’s joint.”

“No wonder he’s your friend for life,” Richard said with a smile. He liked this widowed lady. He liked her courage and her dignity and the warmth with which she’d received him. He didn’t like the speculative glance she cast Genevieve, but he’d known that when he escorted the vicar’s daughter, he would set the village agog.

Under Genevieve’s wary gaze, Richard read the precious letter from Charles Meacham. “All is well on the high seas.
Would you like a quick game of piquet before I accompany Miss Barrett to her next appointment?”

“You gamble?” Genevieve asked with disapproval.

“Like fiends,” Mrs. Meacham said.

“I’ll soon have to pawn my shirt,” Richard added.

Mrs. Meacham giggled. “After my last triumph, you owe me half an hour of reading.”

“Indeed. Miss Barrett, can you wait?”

Genevieve wanted to say no, he saw, but reluctantly she nodded. Mrs. Meacham was a favorite with her too and she often stayed for a chat. An abrupt departure would only stir the widow’s interest.

Richard moved toward a side table piled with books. “I believe we were up to chapter fifteen of
Ivanhoe
. Gad, that fellow’s insipid.”

“Too insipid after Charles’s adventures in the West Indies,” Mrs. Meacham said. “I’ve got something better. My niece sent the London papers.”

Another quality he admired in Mrs. Meacham was that despite her arthritis, fading eyesight and genteel poverty, she maintained a lively interest in the wider world. “We’ll both enjoy those.”

Which turned out to be not quite the case, damn it. The papers were a couple of months old and focused on high society. At that time, Richard Harmsworth had been prowling the marriage market, assessing the current crop of debutantes for a potential wife. A wife of perfect pedigree to polish the tarnish off the Harmsworth name.

The Harmsworth name that frequently appeared in print, even if inadequately disguised as ‘H__msw__th.’ It seemed his doings were familiar enough to Mrs. Meacham that she discussed him as if he were a naughty nephew.

His fear that something in the papers might expose his
identity faded. Luckily, the publications’ sketch artists weren’t nearly as accurate as their reporters. Several pictures purported to be him. But not even his best friends would recognize him as the dandified pretty boy depicted. Although at least they’d got his clothing right. Bitterly he recognized that what he wore carried considerably more importance than the man he was. He’d carefully cultivated his image, but the realization was nonetheless discomfiting.

“Poor Sir Richard,” Mrs. Meacham sighed after a particularly lengthy and annoyingly accurate list of the ladies he’d danced with at Cam’s sister’s ball. One of the servants that night must have taken bribes—and detailed notes. “Will he ever live down the scandal?”

“Lord Neville mentioned something about his birth,” Genevieve said.

Bugger him dead. Despite Great Aunt Amelia’s hints to her, Richard had hoped that Genevieve would remain unaware of his illegitimacy. But even in Little Derrick, his name was tarred.

Eagerly Mrs. Meacham leaned forward. “He’s a bastard, dear. Nobody knows who his father is.”

Richard’s skin itched with the familiar mixture of humiliation and anger. Worse this time because Genevieve heard the grubby story and in a place where he’d been welcomed at face value.

Genevieve frowned as if she pieced together clues. “But it sounds as if he’s accepted everywhere.”

Mrs. Meacham’s expression remained avid and he caught a hint of the pretty girl she’d once been. “He’s rich and handsome, and the previous baronet acknowledged him as the heir, even if everyone knew he was a by-blow. The gossip is that he’s seeking a wife to restore the family prestige.” She looked across at Richard, who battled the desire to fling
the bloody scandal sheets into the fire. “Mr. Evans, you’ve moved in society. Have you met Sir Richard? According to the papers, he’s a great friend of Sedgemoor’s.”

Hell, what could he say? Genevieve’s fixed attention as she awaited his answer hinted at hostility. Perhaps because Richard Harmsworth wanted her treasure. If she only knew that Richard Harmsworth wanted considerably more than that from her.

“No, we haven’t encountered one another.” That wasn’t completely a lie, although it sounded like one. He tossed away the paper with unconcealed contempt. “From what I hear, he’s a paltry fellow.”

Still Genevieve stared at him. He hoped she couldn’t see past his careless response to the roiling rage inside. She had no reason to think him anyone other than Christopher Evans, but still he squirmed under her searching regard.

“He always sounds so dashing to me,” Mrs. Meacham said. “Such a model of fashion and manners.”

Genevieve looked unimpressed. “He sounds like a frivolous wastrel.”

Richard couldn’t restrain a wince, true as her assessment was. She frowned at him in puzzlement, even as Mrs. Meacham launched into a highly colored description of his past escapades and flirtations. All of which only served to paint him as more profligate.

“A man needs to do more with his life than tie a neck cloth to perfection,” Genevieve said repressively.

How Richard longed to defend his real self, but his gut clenched in shame. When he’d set out to become the perfect society gentleman, he’d risen above the foul mire of his parentage. But this particular Phoenix had abandoned his self-respect in the ashes.