Elusive Passion (9 page)

Folding his long arms, Miles ignored her question. “Did you ever meet any of Bella’s lovers?”

“No, Bella was very discreet. Other than you she rarely spoke of any by name unless the affair was long over. What I do know I gleaned from her journal, and even then she refers to some of the men by their initials only.”

“Did you tell anyone about the journal?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“Just Carny.”

“Can he be trusted?”

He shot her a glance that spoke volumes as to what he thought of that question. “With my life.”

“Perhaps the killer already knew. If he was Bella’s lover, he might have seen her writing in it.”

“If that was the case, why wouldn’t he have taken it then?” He scratched his chin.

“Perhaps she was blackmailing him or had threatened to reveal some secret if he didn’t leave her alone? Or perhaps he hadn’t known about it until recently.”

Miles nodded as if her theories made sense. Varya smiled smugly, happy that for the first time that morning she didn’t feel as though she had said the wrong thing.

“If that’s the case and he knows you have it, you could be in grave danger.”

Her smile faded. “I know.”

“I think I should perhaps take a look at this journal.”

Varya was loath to part with the one piece of evidence she had against Bella’s lovers, but she had to admit that Miles might be able to find clues where she had failed.

“Because you think you might find something I missed or because you have such little faith in my capacity to reason?” There was no need of her being so prickly with him, but the man had an annoying way of making her feel as though she were under a magnifying glass.

A sardonic smile curved his lips. “Because I might recognize some of the initials. Many of these men travel in my circles. Her killer has to be somewhere in those pages if your suspicions about the break-in are correct. If that offends your dignity, I apologize, but I believe finding Bella’s murderer is more important than my pride or yours. Don’t you think?”

He had her there—and very neatly, too. Her back rigid, Varya nodded. “Of course. You are welcome to read it.”

“Thank you.” He took a breath. “I also think you
should hire some extra men to act as guards. I know a few ex-military men who could use the work and can be trusted to do a thorough job.”

Varya nodded. She would never find Bella’s killer if she were dead as well. “Would you arrange an interview with them for me, please?”

“I’ll take care of it this afternoon,” he promised.

“Thank you.” She stood. “Now that we have that settled, I really must be going.”

He looked startled. “So soon?”

Her smile was dim. “I think it’s best, do you not? It is not good ton to entertain your mistress in your house, is it? My visit has already put you at risk for some very impertinent remarks.”
And if I don’t leave now I’m going to throw all my principles to the wind and agree to be your mistress for real
.

“Yes, of course. You are correct.”

Her smile grew a little, but still felt rather pathetic. “It had to happen sometime.”

He chuckled, but he didn’t appear to be any happier than she felt.

“When will I see you again?”

She gazed at his suddenly sober face. For a split second, she had the absurd desire to reach up and trace the outline of his jaw, just to touch him.

“Tomorrow, no doubt. I’ll meet you at the Rochesters’ estate.” Before she could do anything she might regret, like throwing herself at his feet, she brushed past him and hastened to the door.

“Varya…”

Against her better judgment, she turned. The hopeful expression on his face was almost painful to look
at. He was a dangerous man as far as her heart was concerned. He had already proven his ability to affect her emotions with a single word or phrase. One touch and she melted like butter near an open flame.

“May I…that is, would you—”

She cut him off. “Yes.” Was she losing her mind? “I have never been to Vauxhall Gardens. Perhaps you would like to accompany me this evening?”

He grinned. “I would, yes.”

She could feel her smile trembling on her lips. “I will be ready at eight.”

“I will collect you at five minutes past.”

She nodded. “I look forward to it. Good day, Miles.”

“Good day, Varya.”

Then, before she could possibly do or say anything else, she whirled around and practically ran to the front hall. The butler opened the door for her and she flew down the steps to her carriage.

Blythe joined Miles at the window. Together, they watched Varya’s carriage as it moved down Wynter Lane.

“I like her,” Blythe informed him. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Miles smiled thoughtfully. “So do I.”

“H
ow do I look?”

Laughing with a mixture of nervousness and delight, Varya pirouetted around the drawing room. The skirts of her indigo gown twirled around her ankles and the simple diamond pendant around her neck glittered in the lamplight.

Katya clapped her hands together in front of her bosom and sighed. “
Prekrasnaia
.”

A smile spread across Varya’s face at the housekeeper’s praise. “Do you really think I look beautiful, Katya?”

“She does not lie,” Piotr told her in a voice as gruff as the expression on his homely face. “Why is it you want to look beautiful for this Englishman?”

Katya shot him a dark look. “You be quiet! What business is it of yours?”

“It’s all right, Katya,” Varya intervened, trying not to chuckle. “Piotr just doesn’t want me to get hurt.” She directed a meaningful gaze at her faithful protector. “He will just have to learn to trust my judgment.”

The stony-faced Russian nodded curtly but said nothing. He held Katya’s unwavering gaze for a few seconds before grumbling under his breath and looking away. Katya flashed Varya a triumphant smile. It was all Varya could do not to laugh. Piotr and Katya seemed as attached to arguing as they were to each other.

The sound of the knocker striking the front door echoed throughout the house. Varya’s heart leaped at the sound. Her wide gaze flitted from Piotr’s stern countenance to Katya’s smiling one. “It’s him.”

With one hand pressed against her chest in an attempt to calm the erratic pounding there, she gripped the back of a chair with the other in case her suddenly wobbly knees decided to give out on her. Why did this man have such an irritating effect on her? And worse yet, why did she like it? She should be wary of his attention, not pleased by it.

Katya elbowed the scowling Piotr. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot. Let him in!”

Muttering in Russian under his breath, Piotr reluctantly shuffled off toward the front hall.

Varya glanced to see Katya smiling warmly at her.

“I have waited ever since you were a little girl for the right man to come and capture your heart.” She held out her arms. “Now he has come, and you are so beautiful.”

Dumbfounded, Varya allowed the larger, older woman to pull her into a fierce embrace. Being hugged by Katya was like being hugged by a small bear. It was several seconds before Varya could catch her thoughts or her breath.

“Katya,” she admonished, pushing free of the woman’s ironlike arms. “Miles is not ‘the right man.’”

Her housekeeper released her, a knowing smile on her thin lips. Katya had worked for her family long before Varya had been born. There had been a stiff English governess to teach lessons and manners, and the merciless nuns at the school where she had met Bella, but whenever Varya had needed a friend, Katya had been there for her. The Russian woman had given her more affection than her mother and father combined. When she fled from Ivan she had been able to leave her family behind in St. Petersburg, but not Katya.

A large hand patted her cheek. “Ah, my
golubchik
, always denying with your head what your heart already knows.”

Varya watched as the older woman lumbered away. She felt as if she had missed something. Katya only referred to her as her “little bluebird of happiness” when Varya’s life had been on the brink of a major upheaval. She had never been wrong before.

“She is wrong now,” she muttered at the chair. Now she held on to its back for fear that Katya had broken one of her ribs.

“Talking to furniture? I’m not certain, but I believe that might be one of the first signs of madness.”

Slowly she brought her head up, smiling sheepishly.
“Good evening, Miles,” she chirped between clenched teeth. “Why didn’t Piotr announce you?”

He grinned—at her distress, no doubt. “He told me if I was going to make a habit of being here I could announce myself.”

Varya pressed the back of one hand to her forehead. “I suspect my servants must be overindulging in vodka in their spare time. It’s the only explanation for their behavior tonight.”

Miles chuckled. “Never mind them.” He crossed the carpet in three strides and gently pulled her hand away from her face.

She gazed at him in fascination as he cupped her hand with his long fingers, and raised it to his mouth. Sensation jolted her entire body as his lips brushed the sensitive inside of her wrist. It felt as if the blood was dancing in her veins.

His gaze locked with hers. His eyes seemed to blaze from within with an ethereal light, flames of gold against pale green ice. She couldn’t look away.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, releasing her hand.

Her throat constricted painfully. “Thank you,” she replied hoarsely. “Between you and the servants, that seems to be the general consensus.”

He tilted his head to one side, as if studying her every feature. In all her years in public life, never had she felt such blatant scrutiny. “Then it must be true.”

She chuckled, warmth suffusing her cheeks. “I suppose it must.”

“We should leave before I decide to kiss you.” His lips curved in invitation.

“Yes, I suppose we should.” But her feet showed no sign of movement.

Laughing, he offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Her fingers curled lightly around his forearm, all too aware of the hard muscle beneath her hand.

“Why not?”

It was a perfect evening.

Vauxhall was crowded, but not overly so. Most of the patrons were simply glad to see summer had finally arrived after the unusually long winter England had suffered through that year. It was early June, and a lady needed nothing more than a light Spencer or shawl to be comfortable out of doors.

The pleasure gardens was one of the few places in England where class distinction mattered little. Lord and laborer trod the same paths marveling at the fireworks exploding in the sky. There were many of Miles’s acquaintance who shunned Vauxhall for that very reason—why mix with riffraff? Miles simply didn’t care who else enjoyed the gardens, just as long as they didn’t interfere with his evening.

He was proud to be seen with Varya on his arm. She was stunning in a velvet gown, a dark gray cloak, and a matching chapeau modeled after a gentleman’s top hat. Were it not for the skirts swaying rhythmically around her ankles, she would almost appear to be a young buck out on the town.

It had been too long since he had ventured out in public with any woman, let alone one believed to be his mistress. He had forgotten how intoxicating a sudden breath of perfume on the breeze could be, know
ing that the heady scent belonged to the beauty beside him.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked as they dined in one of the supper booths.

She glanced up from her plate and fixed him with a smile that warmed him from head to toe.

“This ham is sliced almost as thin as paper,” she replied merrily, “but other than that, I’m having a marvelous time. Thank you so much for bringing me, Miles.”

“Thank you for suggesting it.”

She finished off the last of her ham and daintily wiped her mouth. “Would you care to take a stroll?”

“I would, yes,” he replied, not minding for one minute that she had committed a faux pas by asking him first.

They left the booth and moved toward the south walk. The last dying rays of the sun painted the horizon in shades of orange, yellow, pink, and violet. Torches were already lit along the paths, casting a warm, dim glow across the entire garden. Miles felt extremely comfortable and content—a feeling deepened by the secure pressure of Varya’s hand on his arm.

“Where does that path lead?” she asked, pointing to the right and lifting her chin to gaze at him questioningly.

Miles smiled. The walkway she had pointed to was even more dimly lit than the others and shrouded by trees. “That’s the Lovers’ Walk.”

“Oh!”

He chuckled at her shamed expression. “Come, I as
sure you that you will be completely safe with me.” His quickening pulse belied the seriousness of his words.

Varya smiled gratefully and wrapped her arm more tightly around his. “I confess I would like to see it.”

“Then you shall,” he replied, steering them toward the darkened walkway. “I cannot believe you’ve never been here before.”

She shrugged. “I have been busy with concerts and haven’t made many friends. It would have seemed odd to come here with Piotr or Katya, and Bella never had any interest in it.”

“No,” he agreed, shaking his head sympathetically. “Bella liked to stay indoors.” In bed. It was lowering to realize that he had stayed with Bella as long as he had only for the sex. The more he learned about her, the more it appeared that they hadn’t had anything else in common.

Other than Varya. Had Bella realized how fortunate she was to have such a loyal and devoted friend? Probably. Miles did not want to interfere with such a bond, but there was a little voice inside him urging him to take a chance and make Varya his own.

“What about you? Do you come here often?”

He shook his head. “Not for years. My wife, Charlotte, used to enjoy watching all the different people milling about.” A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “She had a childlike fascination with the fireworks. Her eyes would be as round as saucers for the entire display.”

Varya tilted her head, her gaze far too knowing for his comfort.

“Bella mentioned you had lost your wife. Do you miss her?”

“Sometimes.” He looked out into the darkness, blindly watching the crowd ebb and flow around them. “She was a good woman. Our families had known each other for years, and I doubt that anyone, even Carny, could boast knowing me better than Charlotte did. She was my best friend.”

Varya’s fingers tightened on his arm. Did it bother her hearing him discuss his late wife? The dead were so much easier to be jealous of—there was no possible way to compete with a memory.

“Bella was my best friend.”

The loneliness in her voice surprised him. She spoke as though Bella had been her only friend.

“You must miss her very much.”

Varya nodded, and Miles’s heart twisted at the pain on her face. “I do. Did you love Charlotte?”

“No,” he replied honestly—brutally so. “I loved her as a friend, not as a woman. We married and produced a child out of duty and she died not knowing true love. She knew—even dying she knew that I would mourn our son more than I would her.” His chest tightened with the admission.

Varya stopped walking and turned to him. Miles was compelled to meet her gaze. There was no blame in her eyes, just simple sorrow.

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged stiffly. “It was a long time ago.”

“No. I’m sorry that you felt the need to punish yourself all these years for something that was beyond your control.”

Her words stunned him. Is that what she thought?

“Varya”—he gripped her shoulders—“it was my fault. I killed Charlotte.”

Flesh stiffened beneath his hands. He had genuinely repulsed her now.

“How did you do that, Miles?”

With her head tilted like that she looked just like an inquisitive child. What would it take to prove to her how desolate he was?

“The baby—
my son
—was too large for her to birth.”

She stared at him in confusion. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Look at me!” He stepped back and held out his arms.

“You are very fine,” she replied.

Growling in frustration, Miles grabbed one of her gloved hands and placed it palm to palm against his own. The difference was staggering.

“I married her because I was supposed to. I got her with child because it was expected. And then I killed her because my child was too large for her little body to birth.”

Her fingers curling around his, Varya brought his hand to her lips, brushing it with a gentle kiss.

“Charlotte and your son did not die because of you, Miles.”

He tried to jerk his hand away, but she held it with more strength than he would have believed her to possess.

“Charlotte died because of blood loss or infection, or whatever killed your son took her as well. Healthy women do not die just because their child is big. Do you understand me?”

He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to!

“But the doctor—”

“Was a man, and your sex knows nothing about women and their bodies, no matter how much you like to boast the opposite.” She released his hand. “This self-pity doesn’t suit. Stop it.”

Dumbfounded, Miles could only stare as she linked her arm through his again and continued down the path.

Could it be that she was right? Part of him wanted to absolve himself of the guilt he’d carried all these years, another was loath to relinquish it so easily.

Resolved not to give the matter another thought until he was alone, Miles tried stuffing it to the back of his mind. He would not allow this morose behavior to destroy his evening with Varya any more than it already had.

“Shall we stay for the fireworks?” she asked, her head brushing his shoulder.

“If you wish.” However, he wasn’t ready to share her with the crowd again just yet. “But let us enjoy the rest of the walk first.”

They had just turned the corner and were about to enter the Lovers’ Walk when a feminine voice called out, “Miles!”

They stopped and turned toward the sound. Under the lamps, Miles watched patiently as a gentleman and lady made their way toward them. His pleasure in the evening evaporated suddenly as a sliver of light fell across the woman’s all-too-familiar features. He stiffened. For a moment, he nearly believed she was a
ghost. After his conversation with Varya, it was almost too much.

“What is it?” Varya asked, her voice low. He could see her gaze darting curiously between him and the approaching couple.

He wouldn’t lie to her—not when she would find out for herself the next day when they arrived at the house party.

“Charlotte’s sister and her husband,” he replied, unable to meet her gaze.

“Oh.”

Miles felt her trying to move away from him, as if she hoped to disappear somehow.

“Don’t you dare desert me in front of them,” he growled. “Not if you want to search their home tomorrow.”