Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1) (21 page)

Rafe stripped off his gloves, picked up a cold candle from the table, and leaned over to tip it into her flame. When it caught, he sat back, considering her. “Your self-sufficiency is admirable. But let’s cut bait, my dear. You are too valuable a prize to be left unescorted.”

Callie laughed. “That sounds entirely too medieval. I’m not a prize.”

Rafe gestured around the room. “It fits the house, doesn’t it? And anyway, you are a prize. Even if those who see it aren’t doing enough to make you aware of it.”

His voice hinted at something that Callie didn’t want to examine. She tried to dismiss him instead. “I’m sure I shall be quite safe. No one has behaved with even the smallest bit of impropriety toward me at this party.”

“Those who would are too frightened of Thorington to do so. But if they found you alone, they might seize the opportunity.”

“Your imagination is vivid, my lord.”

Rafe nodded, but he didn’t smile. “Humor an old man, Miss Briarley. I wouldn’t want to see you harmed. I shall keep you company until you are ready to retire.”

Callie nearly laughed again. But there was something in his eyes that stopped her. He was younger than Thorington — thirty-three, according to the
Debrett’s
she had finally read after being embarrassed over not knowing about Thorington’s former wife — but at the moment, he seemed far older.

And far more aware of what dangers might befall her than she was.

So she nodded instead. “I thank you for your concern, then. But perhaps I should return to my room so I do not ruin your evening.”

“Never mind that,” he said. He crossed his legs at the ankle, elegantly. “My evening activities have come to an end. Was there something you were looking for in the library?”

She considered him. He didn’t look like he was going to leave her.

“If you were looking for a novel, you mustn’t feign propriety for my benefit,” Rafe continued. “I’ve been known to read them myself.”

“I do not think my governess would approve,” Callie said. “I shall educate myself with the newspapers instead.”

“And how go your lessons with your ‘governess,’ Miss Briarley?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I find the business tedious.”

That wasn’t true — not at all. And his laugh said he knew it. But even though Rafe was perhaps kinder than his brother, he was still relentless. “By the time you finish your lessons, I vow you could reach far higher than Anthony for a match.”

She snapped one of the papers open. “I’m sure I have no desire to reach higher.”

“A shame,” he said. “You could be a queen if princes weren’t so hidebound about royal ancestry. But I’m sure you could settle for becoming a duchess.”

His words slapped across her face, stunning her for a moment. She felt blood rush to her cheeks. Unable to help herself, she looked over her paper and finally met his gaze.

“You do yourself no honor by teasing me, Lord Rafael,” she said in a low voice.

“I am not teasing you, Miss Briarley,” he said gently.

Something twinkled in his eyes — but it looked more like sympathy than cruelty. She shook her head, slowly, as though the gesture could erase the words that still hung in the air. “I have no designs on becoming a duchess. And you aren’t being kind to Lord Anthony by suggesting it.”

“Lord Anthony would be the first to dance with you if you announced your engagement to someone else,” Rafe said.

Callie gathered her papers together. “I think I should retire, my lord. But I thank you for the conversation.”

Rafe rose, coming around the table and offering her his arm. “I shall escort you, then. There could be any number of devils waiting in the corridors.”

“I doubt it,” she said crisply, putting her hand on his arm. “But I will humor you if it means we may part ways sooner.”

“Yes, your grace,” he said.

Callie glared at him. “I find your humor to be entirely inappropriate.”

He was close enough now that she had to lift her face in order to glare at him properly. He sniffed, and something in his smile turned sly. “Whisky, Miss Briarley? What devil took you under his wing tonight?”

The gleam in his eyes said he knew.

Her anger hadn’t subsided by the time they reached her room. She waited outside while he opened the door and checked for intruders, as though he really was concerned for her safety. When he came back into the hallway, his smile was contrite. “I apologize, Miss Briarley. I have come to admire you greatly, but I forget that you may not feel the same about me.”

She unbent a little. “I admire you as well, Lord Rafael. But I do not think the subject of my marital prospects is an appropriate conversation.”

He leaned against the wall, as rakish as ever. “It’s not. But as it’s the only conversation anyone at this party seems to have, you can forgive me for forgetting that you’re the least interested in it of anyone.”

“You cannot be serious,” she said.

Rafe grinned. “There are bets being placed, Miss Briarley.”

“There are always bets being placed,” she said tartly. “Men can’t seem to help themselves.”

“It’s not just the men. Portia has fifty pounds on you running away with a footman.”

“She wouldn’t,” Callie said with a gasp.

“If it helps, she hedged her bet and put sixty on you marrying Thorington. But the oddsmakers give that an even worse chance than you disappearing with a stable hand.”

Callie shook her head. Her candle cast ominous shadows in the hallway. And again, she thought their conversation sounded medieval.

For a moment, she bitterly regretted that she had come to England. Not that she had entirely ruled her own life in Baltimore — Captain Jacobs’ refusal to stop privateering had reminded her of that. But at least she had had the illusion of control.

Tonight, there were no illusions. She was on display, every move dissected.

And the only moments when she enjoyed herself were with a man who might cost her everything if she married him.

“I won’t marry a stable hand, so I hope you didn’t put money on that,” she said, trying to direct Rafe away from talk of Thorington.

He couldn’t be directed. “Of course not. I put money on my brother. I do hope I’m right — you would be the best thing that could happen to him.”

He didn’t say which brother. And Callie stepped into her room and shut the door before she was stupid enough to ask.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How long have you been in Miss Briarley’s employ?” Thorington asked.

The small sitting room Thorington had found for this interview was decorated with elaborately scrolling rococo woodwork from the previous century, too fussy to be imposing. But Mrs. Jennings twisted her hands in her lap. “Nearly twenty years, your grace. Lady Tiberius, rest her soul, hired me as a nursemaid to accompany them to Europe, and I stayed on after she passed.”

She hadn’t picked up the cup of tea he had insisted she pour for herself. She sat rigidly in her chair — the chair he had practically forced her into, since she didn’t think it proper to sit with him. Thorington often used his power to overwhelm other members of his class, but he rarely did so with servants.

But now that he wanted a servant to give him a direct answer, his power and title thwarted him. Her answers thus far had been nearly monosyllabic.

And nothing she said could give him any clues to Callista’s secrets.

He smiled encouragingly, a gambit he usually didn’t employ when interrogating someone. “And are you happy to have returned to England?”

Mrs. Jennings nodded.

He debated the merits of plying her with whisky. It had worked with Callista the night before. But the thought of Callista, always dancing on the edge of his consciousness, distracted him. She had been so...alive, the night before, in a way he had never seen a woman be with him.

He wasn’t a comfortable man to be alive with. And he hadn’t realized, until she had left him in the dark, what he had missed as a result.

The memory of that dark, empty room haunted him. He had sat, perfectly still, after she left, staring into the shadows. It was as if her laughter slowly cooled into melancholy. He had dreamed of her — dreamed of wicked smiles and clever words, wickeder laughter and cleverer tongues, the wickedest things she could do to him, the wickedest joy he could wring from her.

There was no word for what he felt — or, at least, no word that he could allow himself to acknowledge. So he didn’t try to identify it. He dreamed instead, until the twilight was completely gone and darkness reigned.

Until her laughter was gone and his heart had gone cold again. There was no future in which Callista would be better for having him.

Even if there was no future in which he was better for losing her.

Still, even though he knew he couldn’t have her, he wanted to see her safe. And the suspicions he’d harbored about her — and, thus far, mostly ignored — needed to be assuaged.

Mrs. Jennings looked down at her folded hands. Thorington reverted to form. “You do realize, my dear Mrs. Jennings, that I must determine whether you are an adequate lady’s maid for my brother’s future wife. You’ve done little to recommend yourself.”

She hadn’t responded to kindness, but she bristled at his bored drawl and the threat behind it. “You’ll find no more loyal servant than me, your grace.”

He shrugged. “Your loyalty is to be commended, I’m sure. But your mistress is destined to be an arbiter of fashion when she marries into my family. She will need a maid who can meet the demands of London.”

“An arbiter of fashion?” Mrs. Jennings repeated.

She sounded like she had choked on the words. Thorington rubbed in some salt. “Forgive my high-sounding speech. It means she shall be one of the foremost leaders in the ton.”

“I know what ‘arbiter’ means,” Mrs. Jennings snapped.

Thorington raised an eyebrow.

Mrs. Jennings flushed. “I apologize, your grace. But if you will allow me to speak freely, I must say that I do not see Miss Briarley choosing to play such a role.”

He stayed silent, waiting to see what she might blunder into if forced to fill the pause.

“Begging your pardon, of course,” she added hesitantly.

She was still too cowed by him to say what else was on her mind, but he’d seen her flash of annoyance — and, before that, what had sounded suspiciously like mirth at the idea of Callista becoming a member of the fashionable set.

“What other role do you think she would choose?” he asked.

He looked at his nails, feigning boredom. Mrs. Jennings hesitated, but again, he didn’t rescue her from silence. Finally, she said, “It isn’t for me to tell tales, your grace. But she would want the freedom to choose her course.”

Thorington returned his gaze to her. The woman was in her forties, perhaps — she may have only been a teen when she had left England with Lord and Lady Tiberius to care for their daughter. She was a handsome enough woman, if a bit unrefined. She was more practical than the fashionable maids he’d hired for his sisters, chosen decades ago for her sturdiness as a child’s companion instead of her abilities with a lady’s hair and clothing.

He wondered, idly, whether there had ever been a Mr. Jennings. Not that it mattered. But the fierceness in her voice as she talked about Callista told him all he needed to know about her.

“You would want to see Miss Briarley safe, wouldn’t you?” he asked gently.

She looked down into her cooling tea. “Of course, your grace.”

“And do you think she would be safer in England than in Baltimore?”

She nodded, decisively enough that Thorington’s suspicions grew.

“Is there anything that may make her less safe? Anything that I, as her future husband’s guardian, should be aware of?”

Mrs. Jennings looked up. He’d startled her. “Why would you ask that, your grace?”

Her voice held some new note — either suspicion or guilt. He didn’t move, not wanting to change the mood in any way when he sensed that he was closing in on his target. “Baltimore has become notorious for its contribution to the British Navy’s woes of late. It strikes me that Miss Briarley’s shipping interests may be in danger.”

It was just a shadow of a suspicion — one that had occurred to him as he’d considered Callista’s necklace the previous night, and what trouble she might have found on the voyage from Baltimore to Havana. If Mrs. Jennings had looked confused, he probably would have moved on from the idea entirely.

But instead, Mrs. Jennings scanned his face.

He didn’t know her well enough to be sure. But the way her eyes moved gave him the hint he’d looked for.

“I admit I am relieved Miss Briarley has come back to England, your grace. But I’m sure I don’t know anything about her ships.”

The second part was a lie. He was sure of it.

The only question was how to arrange everything satisfactorily.

If she were his servant, he would have interrogated her until he knew everything there was to know from her. But her loyalty to Callista was twenty years in the making. He might get every answer he wanted from her — but unless he killed her after, she’d report their conversation to her mistress immediately.

Thorington couldn’t kill her. But he no longer had the money to buy her tongue.

The realization that he couldn’t buy her loyalty was another little dagger to his pride, pride that had already been shredded by similar limitations. But he kept his face neutral as he dismissed Mrs. Jennings. She’d already told him all he needed to hear.

There was something about her ships that merited further investigation. If his messenger to London didn’t return soon, he’d have to send another — and perhaps send men to Portsmouth and Southampton as well, in case those ports held any other secrets.

Not that he could afford to send men running around the country. But Callista couldn’t afford to marry the wrong man if it became clear that her shipping concerns were rather less legal than she had made him believe.

And if he had any money left to wager, he’d put it all on guessing that Callista was in quite a lot of trouble.