Secrets of the Heart (18 page)

He was, in fact, the married gentleman to whom Lilith had referred earlier, the man who was her lover and had been for over ten years now. As her brother, Michael could not help but have some reservations over Lilith's love affair with a man who could not marry her. However, since Sir Robert had been her lover before Michael even knew of Lilith's existence, and since she was a grown woman who had been making her way in the world on her own for some years now, he had realized that he had little to say in the matter. As long as he expected to remain on friendly terms with either of them, he knew that he could not lecture them on the subject. Besides, he was well aware that he had little basis on which to be giving anyone advice in the area of love.

He was aware, too, of Sir Robert's marital circumstances, and of the deep and obvious love he held for Lilith. This was no casual affair, but a long-standing commitment which was known by many of the male members of the
Ton.
Sir Robert, though from a good family, had not been a wealthy man. He had through family connections found a good position in the government and had served it with skill and dedication for several years. The death of an aunt several years earlier had resulted in a moderate inheritance, which he had multiplied many times over with skillful investments. He had been able to leave the government and live on his fortune three years earlier, and he had also lent Lilith the funds to buy her gaming establishment. He was prone, also, to lend his presence to the place on a regular basis, thus solidifying its reputation as a reliable place to gamble.

He was, in many ways, the man closest to Michael. Yet Michael also knew that there were depths to the man that he would never know. Despite his quiet demeanor, Sir Robert Blount was not a man whom anyone would be advised to cross.

“Going out on one of your jaunts tonight, Michael?” he asked now, pulling up a straight-backed chair and sitting down beside him. He cast a significant look at his friend's attire.

“I was planning to,” Michael admitted. “Now I am not so sure. Robert…what do you know about a chap named Birkshaw? Anthony Birkshaw. Have you ever heard of him?”

Robert frowned, thinking. “In what context? My work? Gambling?”

“In any context. He is a member of the
Ton.
Married an heiress a few years ago. Daughter of a merchant in York.”

Robert shrugged, shaking his head. “Can't say that the name rings any bells with me. Lil?”

Lilith shook her head. “No. I don't know him. Is it he whom you are chasing?”

“No. It is another matter entirely. Well, at least I know that he is not likely an inveterate gambler if you are not familiar with his name.”

Michael chatted with the other two for a few more minutes, until Lilith had to go downstairs to see to her business. Michael then went to his room and shaved and changed into more aristocratic attire. If he wanted to find out social news, he had decided, he had to go to someone who knew such things. So when he was dressed, he took a hansom to the home of his friend, Perry Overhill.

Overhill was in his study, enjoying a glass of wine before venturing out for the evening. He stood up as Michael entered, surprise spreading over his face. “Michael. I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you had gone directly back to Westhampton.” He strode forward with a smile to greet his friend. “Must have mistunderstood what Rachel said.”

“Hallo, Perry.” Michael shook his friend's hand warmly. “No, you didn't misunderstand. Rachel thinks I am back at Westhampton. I stayed because I'm looking into something. I'm at Lilith's. Disguise, you know.” He gestured toward his darker hair.

Perry frowned. “I thought there was something different about you. I say, old man, you've gotten yourself into a dicey situation.”

“I know.” Michael sat down with a sigh.

“No, I don't think you do,” Perry said earnestly. “Rachel's got the idea into her head that you have been having an affair with Lilith for years. That bloody Leona Vesey told her so the other night at Lady Tarleton's soiree. Of course I told her it wasn't true, but…well, you know I'm not that good at lying, and it took me so by surprise when Leona said Mrs. Neeley's name that I am sure something showed on my face. I denied it, but I can tell Rachel didn't believe me.”

“I know. She came to Lilith's house.”

“What!” Perry's eyes bulged in alarm. “How the devil did she know where she lived? I swear to you, I didn't give Rachel the address. She asked me, but I never told her.”

“I think someone else did,” Michael said, looking grim.

“Well, now, that puts the fat in the fire, don't it? What did Lilith say? What are you going to do?”

Michael waved a hand. “Never mind. I think Lilith managed to cover it up. It's deuced inconvenient, but…”

“Why don't you just tell Rachel the truth?” Perry asked. “Save you a lot of problems, if you ask me.”

“Yes, I know, so everyone keeps telling me. Believe me, I would, except that now it would cause such a dustup if I revealed it. And if Rachel should happen to say anything, don't let on that I know about Lilith and that I do not have an illegitimate half brother.”

Overhill's eyes grew even bigger, and his voice rose as he gasped, “What! Michael, are you mad!”

“Sometimes I think I am. Or I soon shall be.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “But that isn't why I came here.” Michael sat forward in his seat, looking intently at his friend's face. “Perry…what do you know of Anthony Birkshaw?”

“Birkshaw? I'm not sure I—oh, the chap who married that heiress from…Birmingham, was it? No, maybe it was York. Moved there, didn't he?”

“Yes. Some years ago. But apparently he is in London now.”

“Oh, wait! I did hear something about him. What was it? Let me think, now.” Overhill closed his eyes in thought. “Was it Fitzhugh who said something about him? No, Charles Wardlaw. That's who it was, last week at the club. He said Birkshaw had returned to the city. Wife died. That's what it was.” Perry grinned, pleased at his powers of recollection.

“His wife died?” Michael stiffened. “When? How?”

“Good God, man, I don't know. I was lucky to remember that much. You know how Charlie Wardlaw goes on. Don't pay attention much to what he says. Why?”

Michael forced a smile. “Oh, probably nothing…”

So Birkshaw's wife had died, and now he was hanging about Rachel…. The jealousy that had stabbed Michael earlier twisted even deeper inside him.

“Convenient that his wife died young and left him a great deal of money, no doubt.”

Overhill raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“What the devil are you saying, Michael? That Birkshaw killed her? Why, he's a gentleman.”

Michael cast him a sardonic look, and Perry shook his head.

“I say, old man, I think you have been hanging out amongst criminals for too long.”

“I daresay you are right,” Michael replied mildly, rising. “However, I think that I just may pay a visit to my friend Cooper.”

“The Bow Street Runner?” Perry's eyes grew wider. “I say, Westhampton, don't you think—”

Perry stopped, realizing that he was talking to himself. Michael was already striding out the door.

R
achel spent the evening in her bedroom, even taking supper there. Her maid fussed over her, certain that her ladyship was ill, until finally Rachel in exasperation sent her away. All she wanted was to be by herself to think about what had happened this evening.

She had kissed Michael's brother—a man she had met only minutes before. Of course, it had been he who had actually kissed her, but Rachel was too honest not to admit that she had enjoyed the moment thoroughly and had, perhaps, even kissed him back. She had kissed a man she barely knew, a man who was not her husband, an act which was highly inappropriate, improper, immoral—and, she was sure, a hundred other not-right words she could not think of.

And the worst of it was, it had been glorious. It had been the most intense, acute moment of pleasure she had ever experienced. It had shaken and disturbed her; it had set her on fire. And it had left her in turmoil.

She was certain of one thing—that it must not ever happen again. No, she corrected herself, she was certain of another thing, as well, and that was that there was nothing she wanted more than to have it happen again.

Rachel raised her hands to her head, hardly able to believe the thoughts that were pounding there. How could she suddenly be so lost to propriety? So dead to virtue?

It was utterly ridiculous, she reminded herself. The man was a boor—impolite, rough, common. It was absurd that the kiss of a man like that should arouse her. It was also utterly wrong! He was the illegitimate half brother of her own husband. It embarrassed her even to admit how much she had enjoyed his kiss, how little she could stop thinking about it.

Only two other men had ever kissed her. There had been the two soft, worshipful kisses that Anthony had bestowed on her before she became engaged to Michael, and they had felt nothing like that. Heat had not slammed through her as it had this evening, wild and stunning.

The other man had been Michael, just two nights before their wedding. His kiss had been more like this one, hard and demanding, although it had been so long ago that she had trouble remembering the exact sensations she had felt. The main thing that she remembered was the panic she had been feeling that day, both before the kiss and even more afterward. She remembered, too, that something had stirred in her, odd and scary, but it had not been this powerful, this delightful. Her whole being had not risen up in response to it.

Rachel wondered what it would be like if Michael kissed her today. Was the difference not in the men but in herself? Was it because she was older, not scared, not in love with another man as she had been then? She tried to imagine Michael pulling her to him as his half brother had. They looked so much alike that it was difficult to separate the two of them. Michael, of course, would not be so rough; there would not be the scratch of a day's growth of beard. His lips, she was sure, would be gentler, softer. He could kiss her, touch her, and anything she felt would be all right. There would be no moral quandary, only passion and hunger….

Rachel realized that she was tracing her lips with her forefinger as she thought, and that her lips were curved up in a dreamy smile. A sensation stirred deep in her abdomen, warm and achy.

What nonsense!

She grimaced, clasping her hands together in her lap. It was foolish to think of the possibility of Michael's kisses, she told herself. He was not here, and he would not be kissing her. He would rather, she thought with some bitterness, be up on his stupid estate, planting things and corresponding with strangers, than be here in his wife's arms.

She realized that she was being unfair. This was, after all, how their lives had always been. How she liked it. It was only recently that she kept thinking about changing their arrangement.

It was because she wanted a child. Rachel was certain that was it. Ever since she had found out that Miranda was carrying a child, she had been thinking about babies, wanting a baby herself. It was that desire that had spurred her to start thinking about Michael in that way. And now that she thought about it, she could see that it was probably her wish for a baby that had made her react to James Hobson's kiss today. She had been thinking about a baby so much, debating whether she would be able to persuade Michael to change their marital arrangement for the sake of having a child, that she was much closer to her basic instincts right now than she usually was.

When she said it straight out like that, it did not sound very reasonable, she supposed, but emotionally, somehow it made sense to her. It had not been desire for a man, especially not desire for that particular man, that had caused such searing passion to explode in her. It had been the natural, normal, female longing to bear a child.

Having set up the frail argument, Rachel quickly moved away from it. It was best not to think about it, she told herself. Far better to think of something else. Anthony's problem, for instance.

She could not ask Michael to help Anthony now that she had discovered that it was not he who had been working with Bow Street but his brother James. She could tell Anthony about James, she supposed, but she did not want to expose Michael's family secrets to anyone, especially to a man whom Michael disliked as much as Anthony. There was, of course, the possibility of going to James herself and asking him to look into the matter, but that, she knew, was a bad idea. Whatever had sparked the feeling in her during the kiss this evening, it would be far safer for her to stay away from Hobson. If she was not around him, there would be no possibility of it happening again—and she had to make certain that it would not. Her very honor—and Michael's—depended upon it.

She supposed that she would simply have to tell Anthony that Michael could not investigate the matter for him. But she hated to say anything that would make Michael appear petty or mean.

Rachel sighed and leaned her head back against the chair, closing her eyes. Why couldn't she look into the matter herself?

This startling thought brought her back upright in her chair, eyes wide-open. It was absurd, of course. It would have been strange if Michael had been investigating criminal activities, but for a lady to do so would be considered not only ridiculous but scandalous, as well. A year ago she would not even have thought of it, she knew.

But she could not help but think about what Miranda would do in a similar situation. If she wanted to solve something, she would wade right into it. And had Rachel herself not been right there at Richard's home at Christmas, when Jessica very capably aided him in solving the mystery of who had killed one of their guests? It seemed to Rachel that she ought to be able to do something, just as Jessica had.

She pushed aside the niggling thought that Jessica had very nearly been killed during the course of the investigation. After all, Rachel knew that she would exercise the greatest care…and there probably was not even a killer, anyway. No doubt Mrs. Birkshaw's death had been an accident, and it was merely Anthony's grief that had led him to suspect something like that—although, of course, he had not been exactly grief-stricken.

Rachel wondered how one went about investigating a death. The prospect seemed a little daunting when she considered the fact that the death had taken place in another city entirely. She thought for a moment.

If Anthony was here in London, then he had probably brought at least some of his servants, and servants were the people most likely to know what went on in a household for good or bad. Certainly talking to them seemed a logical place to start. Mrs. Birkshaw's personal maid would have been the one most likely to know everything about her mistress and the poor woman's last illness.

Therefore, the next morning, she sent a note over first thing to Anthony's residence, telling him that she would need to speak to his wife's personal maid and the other servants. An hour later, Anthony himself came to the house.

“Then Michael will take on this task for me?” he asked, looking so hopeful that Rachel hated to disappoint him. “How have you had time to contact him? I thought he was at his estate.”

“Oh, he is. I just thought that it would be a good idea if I could send him some basic information. He might be more inclined to take on the job if he knew a bit more. I thought that if I could speak with your wife's personal maid and learn the details of her illness…”

“Of course, of course. That would be extremely kind of you,” Anthony said, beaming. “You are so good to offer. However, her maid no longer is in my employ. She was an accomplished lady's maid, and with Doreen gone, well, there was really no work for her appropriate to her skills and station, so she left our house.”

“Oh.”

“But I have her address. She was from London, and she moved back here right after Doreen's death. I got her address from Jameson, the butler. I could send her a note asking her to come see you. I am sure she would be willing.”

“No, don't bother. If you have her address, just give it to me, and I will contact her. And if I want to talk to any of the other servants…?”

“Just let me know, and I will instruct them to tell you whatever you ask.”

Anthony finally left after a round of profuse thanks, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. Had he always talked so much and to so little purpose?

Now that she had the address for Doreen Birkshaw's personal maid, she intended to visit the woman. No doubt it would be more proper to send her a note and wait for her to come to Rachel's house than it would be to venture to wherever the woman lived, but Rachel had no interest in waiting. She had gone to where Lilith Neeley lived; surely she would be able to manage this just as easily.

Dressed in her plainest and least expensive day dress, she ventured forth, once again hailing a hansom cab a few blocks from her home. Giving the driver the address, she settled back in the vehicle, congratulating herself on taking matters into her own hands. It was rather enjoyable, she thought; no wonder Miranda was given to running things. It was much easier and more interesting than waiting for a man to do something for one, and there was a certain sense of adventure about it that was invigorating.

It was somewhat less intriguing a few minutes later when the hansom set her down and Rachel looked around to find herself in an area that was older, dirtier and more crowded than that where Mrs. Neeley's gambling establishment had been located. Grasping the slip of paper with the maid's address on it, she started up the street, looking for a number. She was aware of the eyes of everyone else on the street, watching her.

A frowsy woman stood in the doorway of one narrow house that looked as if it had been there since the Great Fire, watching Rachel walk toward her. As Rachel neared her, she called out something that Rachel could not understand, given the woman's thick accent. However, it was enough to make Rachel stop and turn to her for help.

“Excuse me. I cannot seem to find this address. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Eh?” The woman seemed to find Rachel's question amusing, for she began to cackle, slapping her hand against her thigh. “'Elp you, can I? I 'spect so, me lady.” She made a wobbly mock curtsey.

Rachel moved somewhat cautiously toward her. The woman reeked of something it took Rachel a moment to identify, but as the woman laughed again and mumbled something, shaking her head, Rachel realized that it was the same smell that had hovered around the head groom when she was a child. Gin, she had heard the servants say when they did not realize she was around. It was an abundance of this drink in the woman, she assumed, that accounted for the woman's mirth and for some of the difficulty Rachel had in understanding her.

“I am looking for this address,” Rachel said, reading out the address written on the slip of paper.

This sent the woman off into further laughter. Rachel sighed and started to turn away, but then the woman said, “'is ain't Poppin's Way, lady. Free streets over now, ain't it?”

“Pardon me?” Rachel turned back to her. “Are you saying that I am on the wrong street?”

“Just so,” the woman agreed, nodding. “Ever'body knows the Popper's over there.” She pointed behind her. “Free,” she added, helpfully holding up three fingers.

“Thank you.” Rachel reached in her reticule and pulled out a few pence and handed them to the woman, doing her best not to breathe in the rank odor that hung about her.

She started up the street briskly and took a right at the next corner, looking somewhat anxiously for some sort of street sign. There were none on any of the twisting, narrow lanes, some of which looked too narrow to even admit a carriage. She also noticed to her dismay that she had attracted a small tail of children behind her, calling out to her for coins. It had been a mistake, she supposed, to pull out the coins and give them to the woman. Turning, she shooed the children away, and they fell back a little, laughing, then followed as soon as she began to walk again.

She took the third street, hoping that her benefactress had not been too steeped in alcohol to know what she was saying. She could not find a number “8” anywhere, but after two or three passes, she located an eight scratched on the wall of one building, so she knocked tentatively on the door.

It opened a crack, and an eye appeared halfway down the crack, glaring at her. Rachel tried a smile and bent down to say, “I am looking for number 8, Poppin's Way. Is this it?”