Bound by Your Touch (8 page)

"Oh," he murmured. "What a wicked tone you take with me. Quite a fierce litde tigress, when it looks like your game is up."

"What game?"

"I think you know it."

"I certainly do
not
know it." Her voice was rising; she could not help it. "You are raving!"

His soft laugh disconcerted her. "Yes, of course I am, darling. Madness runs in the family—or didn't you know?"

The remark effectively robbed her of speech. Of course everyone
knew
about it. The papers had talked of nothing else, four years ago. His sister had stabbed her husband to death, and been sent to the madhouse for it. The Durhams generally had been counted lucky: had she been born to some other man, a man of humbler station, she would have hanged. But for him to allude to the matter!

He pushed off the wall and strolled toward her, hands in pockets, all tall, smiling good cheer, as if they were old friends sharing a joke. "Tell the truth," he said, his manner playful, disarming. "Did he put you up to it?"

She shook her head dumbly. "
Who?
Who put me up to
whati"

"Why, my father. Did he put you up to decrying the stela? I will give you the benefit of the doubt as to how it came into my possession, but surely he must have known you'd recognize your fathers work."

Shock prickled across her body. He thought her to be in some conspiracy with the Earl of Moreland? "My father has nothing to do with forgeries." He was still coming toward her; she found herself backing up against the door. "He is a scholar, a revered one. If you spread any rumors to harm him—"

"What?" He simply kept coming. He was going to walk right into her. She caught her breath as he braced his arms at either side of her head. He leaned in so closely that his breath ghosted across her lips. His gaze roamed over her face for a moment, and then lifted to her eyes. Very softly, he said, "You will do
what,
Miss Boyce?"

She held herself perfecdy still. Her heart was stuttering within her chest. She could not comprehend this. His breath smelled like mint, and his body was warm where it pressed against hers. He was tall, and surprisingly muscled; he had her pinned like a hare. "I will do something," she said unsteadily, "that you won't like at all."

"Oh,
yesV
He reached up and laid a finger to her cheek. "Will you look away very coldly when we encounter one another? Will you tell your friends I'm a bad, bad man?" His voice dropped. "Will you bad-mouth me, darling?" He drew his finger down slowly, until it touched the edge of her mouth. Some horrible, nervous impulse made her lick her lips, and to her mortification, she accidentally tasted him—the tip of his finger, the salt of his skin.

Holding her
eyes,
he lifted away his finger and very deliberately put it to his own lips. He was tasting the spot her tongue had touched, as his gray eyes held hers, mocking, teasing. A flush of heat moved through her. Anger, she told herself. That was all. It was
rage.

His mouth made a little sucking noise as he released his finger. "Lovely," he murmured. "Doesn't taste at all like a flustered, prickly, deceitful little spinster. Why, with a little coaxing, I might let you kiss me into forgiveness."

Her breath stopped. It was the cheapest form of ridicule, twitting her for her unmarried state. Ridiculous to feel hurt by it. She should not care. It should not bother her! But the events of this evening left her unbalanced. She had not put herself forward to be judged by
him.
She struck her fists against his chest and
shoved.

He stumbled backward a pace—graceful, even in his surprise. Of course he would be. It infuriated her. "You low-down brigand." Her voice was low and hoarse. She felt very capable of hurting him. "I don't know what rotten part of your brain has produced this paranoid story, but you will hear the truth: my father is everything kind and decent and upstanding, and his name will
not
be blackened by the likes
of you.
You could tell everyone in the world this sick little lie, and they would only laugh at you. But perhaps that's what you want. You go to such lengths to make a buffoon of yourself, I shouldn't be surprised!"

"Oh," he said, and brought his hands together— once, and then again. Applauding her in slow, hard strikes. "This is a splendid show. Sarah Bernhardt has nothing on you."

"Your insults—"

"Insults? Darling, no! I'm tremendously entertained."

She paused to catch her breath. Her heart was still racing. "Is that what this is about? You want to have a little fun at my expense? Have a bit of revenge for being shown up as a fool in public—
twice
now, I might add? So you will fluster the ape-leader." Contempt weighted her voice, brought it back to a lower register. "How unimaginative, Sanburne! Go to the zoo if you wish to poke at your fellow creatures."

"True, it's not up to my usual standards. But have pity. This house tends to stifle my genius."

A scoff escaped her. "I take it back: you belong in the zoo yourself. You are a beast. The most uncivilized creature—"

He laughed. "And now you're back to lecturing, and the urge comes over me to stop your mouth by kissing it." As she gaped at him, he went on. "I never imagined I had so much in common with Carnelly, but there you have it: we are both quite perverse."

The name brought her up short. Carnelly was the importer who handled her father's antiquities shipments. Good Lord. "Did
Carnelly
tell you these lies?" It didn't square. Carnelly was rough-kempt and poorly spoken, but he was not dishonest.

"No," he said. "Carnelly showed me the packing lists for your fathers shipments, and kindly pointed out where my fraudulent stela had been entered."

Dear God. "Excuse me," she said, and darted past him, down the hall.

The next morning dawned cold and wet. In the carriage, Lydia pulled her shawl over her mouth to dull the bite in her lungs. No matter the season, the air in the dingy, narrow lanes around Carnellys warehouse tasted acrid and thick, a mix of coal smoke and urine, rotting fish and open sewage. As the vehicle slowed to negotiate a narrow passage, stray dogs leaped from the gutter to yip, their hair hanging in dirty, matted ropes over the visible architecture of their ribs. The footman who rode across from her tightened his hand around the gun in his lap. It occurred to her that the denizens of the East End posed less of a threat than the chance of the pistol misfiring. When they finally drew up at the warehouse, she exited with a sigh of relief.

But inside, her spirits sank abrupdy. "It's true enough, miss," Carnelly told her, and handed over a sheet of paper. "The forgery's listed in your father's shipment, I'm sorry to say."

Her throat tightened. It was her fault, then. She had overlooked a conspicuous fake. How would she ever explain this to Papa? "How did it get in there? My father would not overlook such a thing."

He shrugged. "Perhaps someone broke into the shipment in Port Said—or Malta, even. Switched out the real piece for that shoddy number."

"Yes," she murmured. That was the only viable theory. She set it aside for the moment to consider her immediate course of action. The viscount would have to be dealt with. "I did not know Lord Sanburne was one of my father's clients." This, too, bespoke an embarrassing carelessness on her part. "Who is his agent?"

Carnelly had been sucking on his teeth; now he released them with a wet, popping sound. "Well, that's the thing, miss. None of that shipment was ever intended for his lordship. I generally sell him Colby's stuff. He's not very interested in the cheaper pieces." At her look, he flushed and shrugged. "I mean the less expensive pieces, miss, which your father usually trades in."

"He trades in the pieces that the Egyptian government
permits
him to sell," she said. "He is not a looter, sir; he is a legitimate scholar. You know this."

Carnelly cleared his throat. "Yes, miss. Point is, there was a mix-up. The stela was never meant for him." Sheepishly he nodded toward the paper in her hand.

The script on the packing list was familiar to her— the backward-slanting hand of her fathers secretary in Cairo. But the descriptions did not ring a bell. "This is a shipment for Mr. Hartnett," she realized. He was an old friend of Papa's from university, and purchased pieces sight unseen.

"Aye, that's right."

Relief flooded her. The forgery had not slipped by her, then. Thanks to Mr. Hartnett's arrangement with Papa, she was not required to examine his items. "But why were these pieces in circulation? I told you to hold them—the gentleman passed away two weeks ago."

He sighed. "Aye. It was Wilkins that did it. He messed the whole thing up. And your father's pieces weren't the only things he got muddled, miss. Overton's stuff went to Colby's buyers."

Overton was a pig, still sulking over the defection of his best client to Papa's services. "Do not expect sympathy on
his
account."

"Well, I wouldn't. It's Colby I'm worried about. He's furious, he is. Threatens to pull his business over it. I'm like to give Wilkins a paddling."

Mr. Camelry's nephew was a terrible trial to him, and the boys blunders had become something of a long-running joke. But she could muster no amusement today. His incompetence endangered Papa. Mr. Hartnett would have realized that the forgery was not deliberately passed to him, but Sanburne had no cause for such confidence. If he made the news public, Papa's clients would abandon him. Worse yet, Papa's colleagues might begin to look on him with suspicion. Farewell, hopes of funding! His project could be delayed indefinitely. Not to mention, of course, the threat to Ana. A debutantes reputation was so fragile. What would Mr. Pagett's family say, if it were suggested that her father engaged in criminal activities?

Her fingers had set up a nervous tattoo on the counter. She flattened them. "You will send the rest of Hart-nett's shipment to me at once, I'm afraid I no longer, feel confident of their safety here. And in the future, you alone will handle our shipments—provided, of course, that my father decides to retain your services."

He sighed heavily. "Aye, miss. It hurts me to hear it, but I reckon I understand."

"I should hope so. And now I will wire my father about this matter." The prospect afforded her a measure of calm. "No doubt one of his workers, or perhaps a dockworker in Cairo, is responsible for this switch. Which means the real stela is on sale in some bazaar right now—at a horrible discount, I might add!"

"As you say."

She looked narrowly at him. "You sound doubtful, sir.

Carnelly shrugged. "I know your father as an honest man. But this is a bad business, Miss Boyce. Doesn't reflect well on me, either."

Her hand slapped against the counter. "I certainly hope you're not implying that
my father
had a role in it!"

"Of course not," he said hastily.

"Because to think he would risk his reputation by trafficking in—in
fraudulent material
is beyond outra-geous!

"I expect so," Carnelly muttered. "I humbly apologize, miss. I intended no offense."

"I can't imagine what else you might have meant by it, then. Recall that this is
my father
you speak of, not some tomb raider like Overton or Colby. Henry Boyce is a
scholar.
He trades to support his work, not his bank account—and that work means everything to him! If you will only consider the separation he must endure from his own family, sometimes for years at a stretch—" She caught herself; she had started to raise her voice. "Well," she said, flustered. "I apologize for my... vigor. But it must be clear to you that he would
never
risk his reputation or his legacy—or the happiness
of his family,
for that matter—on such criminal shenanigans."

"No, miss." Carnelly pulled at a ginger ringlet. "I'm right chastened. Mr. Boyce is a fine man, and don't I know it." But his face twisted in some unhappy thought.

"Then what disturbs you? Be frank with me, please."

"Nothing, only . .. there's still the matter of his lordship. I can't rightly figure what happened to the pieces
he
was owed. No doubt one of Colby's clients is sitting on them, having a good laugh at my expense. Oh, damn Wilkins! Begging your pardon, miss."

She waved away his language. Here was an opportunity to put things right with Sanburne and hush his evil mouth up. "Give me the viscounts direction. I will see his lordship recompensed for the stela."

Carnelly brightened. "Why, thankee, miss, that's right kind of you. I expect he will be a bit more cheerful at the sight of a pretty girl on his doorstep."

She scowled to disguise the flutter of pleasure that this praise occasioned. Oh, vanity! She could not help it. She did not receive many compliments, but Carnelly always had a kind word for her. No doubt he thought it good business practice to flatter her: she mustn't take him seriously. "Thank you," she said, and pretended she meant the remark in response to the scribbled address he handed her. "I will send a note when I have dealt with the viscount."

Chapter Four

J
ames rose four hours after he'd fallen into bed. Displeased to discover that the body was not, at present, as willing as the mind, he dismissed his valet and crossed into the dressing room, taking a seat at the window as he struggled to wake.