A Rake's Midnight Kiss (24 page)

Every ounce of chivalry revolted at her maltreatment. “How many were there?”

Genevieve still hadn’t looked at him. He hoped she didn’t feel guilty because of what they’d been doing while this outrage occurred.

“I saw three. There could have been more.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“No, they were masked.” Again, Mrs. Warren answered. Genevieve continued to murmur softly to her father.

“What about their voices? Were they local?”

“Apparently they sounded like Londoners,” Fairbrother said.

Richard didn’t even resent the arrogant lordling answering. To prevent a recurrence, he needed to know everything.

Was the jewel safe? He hardly cared. At that moment, he admitted that he stayed for Genevieve Barrett. The Harmsworth Jewel became almost irrelevant.

His gut knotted. Hell, if Genevieve had been here, she’d have fought back. She could have been seriously hurt.

Except Genevieve hadn’t been here.

That struck him as significant. Whoever had planned this knew about comings and goings at the vicarage. Inevitably Richard’s suspicions focused once again on Fairbrother. “Did they take anything?”

“With the house in this state, who can tell?” Mrs. Warren said.

“But they didn’t touch the library?”

“They did. Oh, they did. My poor books,” the vicar quavered. “They tied me to a chair, the savages, and went through everything. Word of my discoveries must have spread. Once I make my findings about the princes public, the cat will be among the pigeons, never you doubt it.”

Richard did doubt it. These thieves searched for something of more tangible value than academic glory. Had they found it? Genevieve still hadn’t addressed him and something in her tense, pale features stopped him asking.

Mrs. Warren stood, her hands fluttering at her waist as if she was unsure what to do with them. “We can’t leave the house like this.” She glanced out the window. “Goodness me, what do they want?”

Richard stepped to her side, taking her arm. A crowd of villagers marched up the back lane. He leaned out the window. “Mrs. Garson, the vicar’s in no condition for visitors.”

“We’re not visiting, Mr. Evans,” the widow called up. “We hear everything’s a right old mess. And that silly girl Dorcas isn’t up to much beyond pushing a duster. We’ll have the house shipshape and Bristol fashion before you can say boo to a goose.”

By God, Richard liked these people. With a few exceptions like Cam or Jonas, he couldn’t imagine any of his so-called friends rallying to his assistance if he was in trouble.

“Mr. Evans, you should go home,” Fairbrother said coldly behind him. “With the vicarage in disarray and violence brewing, the Barretts need some peace.”

“No, no, not Mr. Evans,” the vicar wavered, clutching the shawl to his throat despite the fire burning in the grate. “Thieves wouldn’t dare threaten me with a strong young man in the house.”

Richard waited for a sign of approval from Genevieve, but she turned to stoke the fire. He frowned. What was wrong?

“They attacked today.” Impatiently Fairbrother slapped his gloves against his beefy thigh. “Evans wasn’t much use.”

“He wasn’t here,” the vicar retorted with unexpected energy. He looked past Genevieve to where Richard leaned against the window. “Please say you’ll stay. Surely it’s not presumptuous to call upon our friendship.”

For one burning moment, Genevieve’s glance fell on him. But when he tried to catch her eye, she fussed with refilling the posset cup.

“Of course I’ll stay,” he said, disregarding Fairbrother’s huff of disgust.

Curse his preternatural awareness of Genevieve. Her back was turned, but he saw her shoulders stiffen. Why wouldn’t she look at him? It seemed deuced queer when not long ago she’d begged him to touch her. Was it shame? Or had something else upset her?

What a fool he was. Of course she was distraught. Her home had been pillaged. Her quietness wasn’t aimed at him.

“Capital,” the vicar said, and Richard’s conscience twinged at the relief flooding the old man’s face. After all, while he’d never intended injury, his purposes were murky.

“I’ll let the ladies in.” Mrs. Warren looked less bereft now that she had a task.

“No, I will,” Richard said. When he reached the door, he turned briefly to find Genevieve at last watching him. Her face was stark with hatred.

L
ord Neville is right. We need to send Mr. Evans away.” Genevieve linked her hands at her waist to hide their shaking.

It was the afternoon following the burglary and she stood in the center of the parlor, at last mercifully free of predatory males. Lord Neville pursued his own investigations. Christopher, after shadowing her without encouragement since yesterday, had taken Palamon for a gallop. With just her father and aunt present, Genevieve snatched the opportunity to denounce the man she blamed for their trouble.

“Why on earth should we do that, dear?” Her aunt laid her knitting on her lap. She was still edgy, but calmer since restoring the house to order. “I feel safer with him here.”

“No, no, Mr. Evans must stay,” her father said urgently. “What flummery is this, Genevieve?”

Her father still started at the slightest sound and he’d taken to locking his library door. Right now he huddled near the blazing hearth, wrapped in the ubiquitous shawl.

Genevieve forced out the accusation she should have
made after Christopher kissed her in the moonlight. Identifying him as a villain shouldn’t be so difficult. She knew his every word was a lie, but still her recalcitrant heart grieved at his duplicity.

Self-hatred rose like bile. How could she have kissed the swine without tasting his corruption?

Until now she’d been willing to consider Christopher’s suspicions of Lord Neville, but she now recognized the allegations as a clever way to distract her from his vile intentions. The evidence against the man who made her stupid with kisses was overwhelming. He’d broken in once already. And yesterday he’d delayed her in Oxford while his henchmen brutalized a helpless old man and a defenseless woman.

Most mortifying of all, Christopher’s hands had touched her body while the burglary took place. Her cheeks stung with shame. She was so gullible. Any fool could see that a sophisticated man like Christopher Evans would never desire an awkward bluestocking like her. There had to be an ulterior motive for his seduction.

“Mr. Evans is behind the break-ins.” Her voice was scratchy after too many tears. The deceitful cad wasn’t worth one sleepless minute, which hadn’t stopped her tormenting herself through the night.

She’d never expected her family to believe her immediately, but it was an unpleasant shock when her aunt laughed. “Don’t be silly. He’s a gentleman to his bootstraps.”

Genevieve stoutly refused to recall moments when he’d been less than gentlemanly. And she’d been less than a lady. He’d betrayed her; he’d flown her to heaven. She still couldn’t reconcile those two facts. Her stomach heaved with humiliation and outrage. Outrage above all. How could he touch her like that and all the while plot this cowardly crime?

“He broke in that night you went to Sedgemoor’s.” Curse her distress. It made her sound like a weepy female when she had to appear strong and sure.

“Nonsense,” the vicar said sharply. “That man was masked, wasn’t he? And you described a horrible ruffian when Mr. Evans has the prettiest manners. I despair of you, Genevieve, slandering a good man.”

“Papa,” she said helplessly, even as her heart sank at his stubborn expression. When he looked like that, nothing would shake him. “Trust me about this.”

“You took against Mr. Evans from the first. Heaven knows why.” His jaw jutted at an ominous angle. “Now, when you know the comfort I derive from his presence, you seek to deprive me of my one security. It’s too bad of you, Genevieve. Too bad.”

“Mr. Evans was in Oxford with you when it happened,” her aunt said. Genevieve found the sweet reason in her tone harder to counter than her father’s querulousness.

“Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?” Genevieve couldn’t, she just couldn’t, confess that she’d recognized Christopher as the intruder after he’d kissed her.

After he’d gone riding, she’d searched his bedroom for incriminating evidence. But the scoundrel kept few possessions with him and she found nothing to prove him a villain. Instead, she’d spent far too long breathing lemon verbena, an inevitable reminder of what he’d done to her. Should she need such a reminder, curse her.

Her aunt looked unconvinced. “If he was with you, how could he rob the vicarage?”

“He hired thugs. Whoever arranged this knew that the household lay unprotected.”

Her aunt resumed knitting, clearly dismissing Genevieve’s suspicions. “That could be anyone passing through
Little Derrick. Why would you think Mr. Evans has wicked intentions?”

His intentions were wicked in all sorts of ways Genevieve didn’t want to recall. She flushed. “I remember his voice from that night.”

Her aunt regarded her as if she was mad. “After all this time?”

“Our troubles started when he arrived,” Genevieve said, even as she recognized that nothing would persuade either Aunt Lucy or her father that Christopher Evans meant them harm. She’d reviled his fatal charm before, but never with such virulence.

“Coincidence.” In other circumstances, she’d welcome the vicar’s spark of authority. Since yesterday, he’d been so cowed, it had wrung her heart, no matter his sins against her. “I won’t hear a word against him.”

“Papa—”

“I agree with your father, Genevieve.” Aunt Lucy’s voice softened. “We’re all upset and jumping at shadows. But that doesn’t mean you should leap to conclusions about innocent bystanders.”

Christopher was an innocent bystander the way she was a society belle. “You’re wrong,” she said flatly.

The disapproval in her father’s expression could still make her squirm. “I’d appreciate it if you kept these wild surmises to yourself, girl. If you bother Mr. Evans with this twaddle, he may take offense and leave.”

Which would be a fine thing in Genevieve’s opinion. She choked back a bitter sigh. It hurt that her family refused to listen to her. It hurt almost as much as discovering that Christopher had connived to keep her away from the vicarage yesterday.

“Genevieve?” her father said sternly when she didn’t
reply. “I want your word that you’ll never mention this silliness again.”

Frustration welled, prompting her to tell them exactly why she knew Christopher Evans was false. But her courage failed. Even after she exposed her shame, they’d probably still take his side.

She straightened and stared back at her father, wishing she felt angry rather than devastated. “I promise not to accuse Mr. Evans.”

Her father nodded, his brief vigor fading. “Very well. We’ll speak no more of this.”

No, they wouldn’t. From now on, she’d watch for incontrovertible evidence of Christopher’s crimes and pray that nobody got hurt in the meantime. The vicarage’s defense fell to her.

God help her.

“So she hates my guts.” Arms braced against the marble mantel, Richard stared into the roaring library fire.

It was almost a relief to be at Leighton Court, away from the vicarage’s simmering tensions. At least tonight he was sure that Genevieve and her family were safe. Thanks to Cam, half a dozen armed footmen watched the place.

He was worried sick about Genevieve. Lord Neville wasn’t finished, he just knew it. After orchestrating two unsuccessful burglaries to find the jewel, threatening her would be the logical next step. The problem was convincing her that she was in danger. The second problem. The first was getting her to listen to him instead of treating him like Satan incarnate.

“Does it matter that much?” Jonas Merrick, Viscount Hillbrook, slouched in his chair, contemplating his brandy.
Jonas had reluctantly abandoned his beloved wife Sidonie and baby daughter to dine with Cam and Richard.

“Damn it, yes, it does,” Richard snapped, irritated at his friend’s bored tone.

He wondered if he could explain how he felt without revealing how he felt
really.
All his life, he’d struggled to hide his vulnerabilities beneath a careless façade. Although he had a grim perception that his friends knew him well enough to guess that more occurred here than a flirtation gone to the dogs.