His Sinful Secret (33 page)

His smile was just a small, ironic curve of his lips. “No. I meant it wasn’t an accident. Someone shot at me deliberately.”

Not sure how to respond, Julianne just stared at him. The duchess made an inarticulate sound of dismay.

With exquisite politesse, he said, “Mother, can you please excuse us? I would very much like to speak with my wife alone. Julianne, shall we go upstairs?”

 

“You are leaving London.”

He knew he hadn’t delivered that edict well and quietly shut the door behind them. “Let me rephrase. I think you should take the child and leave for the ducal estate in Kent. Fitzhugh will go with you.”

Julianne walked slowly over to the bed and sat down on the edge, her dark blue eyes luminous. “I will consider it if you will explain to me exactly what is happening. I am not unintelligent, my lord, and I have already gathered that you still serve the British government in some capacity that is, apparently, dangerous. The night of our wedding you were evasive when I asked about your injury, and you have not been more forthcoming since. I am not going to claim you owe me the truth.” Her smile was tremulous. “I too kept a secret from you, and I am not that hypocritical, but I love you and want to share all of your life, not just the small part you have given me so far.”

None of the moments of danger he’d faced in his life so far had ever paralyzed him. He’d been captured by the French—twice, no less—tortured for information, fought in bloody battles, and, after Talavera, once left for dead on the field, he’d pragmatically accepted that he might well lose his life if not found soon. So he’d crawled, bleeding and weakened, past fallen comrades until he heard the sound of voices before he collapsed.

That had been much, much easier.

At this moment, he couldn’t move. The breath seemed caught in his chest and he just stood there, speechless and frozen.

He’d wanted to hear it, and he just had that wish fulfilled. What should he do now?

Julianne waited, her expression poignant, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I . . .”

“You?” she said when he trailed off after that ineffectual one syllable.

Damn her,
he thought after another moment in which he groped for words. While she might be young and inexperienced, she still had easily gained the upper hand with her artless declaration, and from the very slight hint of a tentative smile touching her soft lips, she realized it too.

Michael took in a steadying breath and said quietly, “I will be as honest as I can. Some secrets are not mine to reveal.”

Was she disappointed he hadn’t fallen to his knees and sworn his undying devotion? She didn’t seem to be.

Maybe she knew him better than he thought she did, and that realization didn’t help his discomfort. She hadn’t expected anything in return.

Frowning, Julianne said, “This afternoon a woman claiming to be Chloe’s mother came to visit me. I have no idea how the visit ended, for your father came in and at his request I left them there to deal with each other. But it certainly was not the woman I have been paying these past months. She told me quite shamelessly they had some sort of collaboration to extort money.”

A frisson of warning shot through him. That was strange indeed. “What else did she say?” he asked tersely. “Go over it for me carefully.”

She did, explaining how the woman who had claimed to be Chloe’s mother had declared she was tired of waiting for someone else to get her money for her, and various other sordid details that did nothing to clarify the situation but just further muddied it.

Two mysterious women and sudden chaos in his life . . . Michael mentally shook his head. Not only did his instincts tell him it was all related, but the coincidence of the timing was also telling.

The first failed attack on him had been right after his engagement was publicly announced. That was also about the same time Julianne had been contacted with the blackmail ultimatum.

Finally, enough evidence was piling up for him to sink his teeth into. This part of the game he knew. This was his forte. To assemble a puzzle, one needed pieces.

He walked over to the bed, pulled his wife to her feet, and kissed her with hard, lingering pressure, one arm around her slim waist, the other hand at her nape so their bodies were pressed tightly together. Arousal flared through him, but along with it came a deeper sensation, an indescribable sense of belonging. She belonged in his embrace, and he belonged there, holding her, kissing her, his fingers tangled in her hair.

When he finally lifted his mouth from hers and her lashes slowly rose, the light in her eyes humbled him. When he cleared up this nasty little mess, he’d join her in Kent, he decided. By necessity he spent most of his time in London, but England could do without his services for a while. Autumn was a beautiful time in the country, and he could suddenly see himself taking his wife for long morning rides down the winding lanes, going for picnics near the river, and watching the moonlight gilding her glossy hair as they drifted to sleep each night in each other’s arms. . . .

When was the last time he’d simply enjoyed life? His marriage was making him reconsider his priorities, and while it had been acceptable to risk his neck for the Crown, it was different now that he had a family of his own. His first responsibility was to Julianne, and now there was a child to care for also.

“Call your maid and start packing.” He touched her cheek and reluctantly let her go. “You’ll depart tomorrow morning. Don’t worry, love. I will take care of everything.”

The endearment, said in a low tone, stopped him even as he turned to decisively walk away. He shouldn’t linger; he needed to talk to his father and then possibly to send a message to Charles.

“You’ve never called me that before,” Julianne said, her voice hushed. She gazed at him with tentative . . . what? Triumph? Hope?

She is young,
he reminded himself.
Idealistic. She believes in love. She thinks she loves
me
. . .

With all he’d seen and done in his life, he wasn’t sure he could regain an idyllic view of the world. But for her, he found, he was willing to try.

“I will take care of everything,” he repeated, and walked in long strides toward the doorway.

She didn’t know it, but he’d never called
any
woman that before.

I
t had started to rain. Again. England truly had a terrible climate, if you asked him, though Lawrence was from Manchester and a native. Once you’d sailed the Mediterranean, or, even better, the Caribbean, you became a devotee of sun-drenched beaches and azure skies. He’d discovered gems of small islands and palm trees in luscious coves and pristine white sands that stretched for miles.

Until, of course, he ran afoul of a French navy vessel, was thrown in chains, and impressed into Bonaparte’s service on pain of death.

For a man who had scraped his way out of the gutter, that was not an acceptable existence. Cheating fate had become one of his special skills, and as an Englishman, however jaded, he wasn’t about to advance the cause of the ambitious little Corsican.

So he had subverted it instead.

Would he have repeated every choice he’d made in his life? No, he acknowledged, turning his collar up against the driving precipitation, but neither did he believe in regrets. Too many choices had been made for him as it was, and he was owed enough apologies that he had none to give others.

Yes, he and Antonia were very, very much alike.

For now, he needed to discover if he had made a grave mistake.

Perhaps he had, for once inside the house, after hanging up his greatcoat, he found the housekeeper, Mrs. Purser, hovering in the hallway. “I’m glad you are back, Mr. Lawrence. My lady has a visitor and left instructions for you to join them upon your return.”

He was well aware the small staff Antonia employed thought his relationship with their mistress an interesting one, to say the least, and weren’t sure how much deference to pay him. Most of the maids called him sir, but Mrs. Purser, who was somewhat of a puritan, amused him constantly by giving a disapproving sniff whenever their paths crossed, which was inevitably quite often in such a small household. She obviously suspected he shared Lady Taylor’s bed, and she certainly knew he came and went at strange hours.

“In the drawing room?” he asked, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his damp face. He was hardly dressed to receive visitors, but then again, he hadn’t expected he needed to be.

“His lordship’s study.”

Antonia wouldn’t entertain the average visitor in Lord Taylor’s study.

Longhaven.

He’d wondered, actually, how long it would be before he saw the marquess again.

As usual, his archrival was handsome and urbane, even dressed as casually as Lawrence in fawn breeches, white shirt, and dark coat. He sat in Lord Taylor’s chair behind the desk, which was somehow irritating, perhaps because of the implied proprietorship of the room. Antonia was dressed to go out for the evening, the material of her gown a telling deep ruby, complementing her olive skin and raven hair. She was every inch the flamboyant Spanish beauty, and Lawrence could have stood there for a lifetime just admiring the view.

Except for the open suspicion in her eyes.

Not good,
a small voice whispered in his brain.
Something has happened
. Out loud, he said, “Good evening. You wished to see me?”

“I’m wondering now,” the Marquess of Longhaven said in his best negligent drawl, “if Mrs. Stewart ever departed on that ship months ago. It is possible, of course, she did, and I am mistaken in my assumptions, but having had some time to think over the options, I cannot come up with a better candidate for a woman who so violently wants me dead.”

As always, the man was no fool.

Lawrence strolled into the room, stripping off his gloves.

Antonia said stiffly, “Michael’s theory is quite interesting.”

The fire in the hearth made it a bit stuffy, but that was the least of his worries. With careful deliberation he chose a chair and sat down. “I’m apparently considered to be culpable in some way. Explain to me this ‘theory.’ ”

“That’s quite easy. Did Alice Stewart, a reputed close friend of Roget, sail on that ship months ago? You were supposed to see her board and watch it leave the harbor. If she didn’t leave England, I think I have a fair idea of who is so determined to kill me.”

“Oh, yes, the nefarious Mrs. Stewart. I remember the incident quite well.” Lawrence wasn’t even sure why he was stalling.

Michael Hepburn’s gaze was steady. “Then you will have no trouble answering the question.”

Lawrence could lie, of course. God knew he’d done so before and would probably do it again in his lifetime, and of his myriad sins, it was a minor one. But lying in general and lying effectively to Longhaven were two different matters, and, besides, he found he didn’t wish to perjure himself in front of Antonia.

But neither did he want to explain.

A devil’s own dilemma, to be sure.

So he equivocated. “She boarded a ship and I watched it sail.”

“Was it bound for India?”

“You truly think Alice Stewart is behind the recent attempts on your life? Why?”

In the chair behind the oak desk, Longhaven stirred in a singularly uncharacteristic restive movement. “I have reason to believe she has made an effort to have access to my family with a somewhat inventive impersonation.”

“How so?” Lawrence was well aware he hadn’t yet answered the pertinent question.

“The details aren’t necessary.”

“Every bit of information is necessary,” he countered. As usual, Longhaven had secrets of his own. Lawrence might not be aristocratic or privileged, but in many ways, they were well matched.

“In this case, I am unwilling to reveal the details.”

It must be nice to be born and bred to that uncompromising tone. That luxury was unknown to Lawrence, and he smiled thinly. “Spoken like the exalted marquess. Now, if you really wish to ask me questions, shall we regain our equal footing? Answer my question and I will answer yours.”

To Longhaven’s credit, he didn’t point out they had never been equals. At least not socially. He merely looked bland, though his eyes were watchful. “Fair enough. I’ve always trusted you . . . at least as much as I trust anyone. My wife was approached by a woman who claimed she’d borne my brother’s babe out of wedlock. Needless to say, she wanted money. Julianne went to see the child every week. However, as matters started to complicate, it seems the mother of the child is not whom my wife visited. The deviousness of it hardly speaks of a simple arrangement of blackmail. There’s a purpose, and in light of recent events I am beginning to worry it involves more than simple avarice.”

In light of this information, Lawrence worried about the same thing. “Why is Mrs. Stewart a suspect?”

“Should she be?”

Antonia rose to her feet then, her face flushed, her eyes flashing. “I am so tired of games! Speak plainly to each other for once. He told
you
what you wanted to know. Lawrence, simply answer his question. Did that woman sail for India or is she causing all this trouble?”

Of course, gentleman that he was, Longhaven immediately rose also, since she was standing.

Lawrence was not so refined. Perhaps it was time she remembered it. He stayed seated and said coolly, “Your impassioned demands are usually my pleasure, my love, but in this instance, it sounds too much like an accusation. I have no idea if Mrs. Stewart is our culprit. But no, she did not sail off to India.”

Lord Longhaven did not look surprised. “Where was the ship bound?”

“France.”

“Ah.”

“Who would ever want to go there?” Antonia spat out the question, magnificent as ever in her disdain. She muttered something in Spanish that was obviously not flattering to that country. The majority of the French people, of course, were not responsible for the atrocities committed by Bonaparte’s troops, but trying to tell her that was a lesson in futility. When she hated, she hated passionately.