Shady Lady (23 page)

A look from her, a word, and he was putty in her hands, and those were ruthless hands. He was supposed to be a fearless warrior. Wellington had said so in his dispatches from Spain. Yet, here he was, licking his wounds after a tussle with a ghost. How could he fight a ghost?

He couldn’t, and he wasn’t going to try.

Frowning, he picked up the map of the grounds of Brinsley Hall. After a moment’s reflection, he made a notation in the margin. After another moment’s reflection, he stroked it out. This was useless. He should go to bed.

He tossed the stub of his cheroot into the empty grate, pushed into his bedchamber, and came to a sudden halt. She was there, Jo, wearing that filmy negligee again, looking like she had just stepped out of his deepest, darkest fantasy. She was sitting in one of the armchairs that flanked the grate.

“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

“Waldo, that was churlish,” she chided, “and not like you at all. But to answer your question—I’m here because . . .” She sighed, got up, and walked toward him. “You’re making this very difficult for me, standing there all silent and brooding.”

“If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

The bite in his words made her falter a little, but she’d come too far to turn back. It had taken her a little while to work things out, and now that she had, she was prepared to humble her pride and accept his barbs without a murmur of protest.

She said softly, “I’m not thinking of what’s good for me or what’s good for Eric. I’m thinking of what’s good for you. That’s why I can’t marry you.”

He had a repertoire of smiles he could use to devastating effect. The cynical twist to his lips matched the cynicism in his voice. “I don’t recall asking you to marry me.”

“Not in so many words. If you had, I would have been tempted to say yes.”

“You would? I mean, why would you?”

She was toying with the buttons on his waistcoat, so she missed the little muscle that tensed in his cheek. “Well, it wouldn’t be because it was the perfect solution to our problem of who should have charge of Eric.” She looked up at him. “I couldn’t marry a man I didn’t respect and admire, and I respect and admire you. In fact, I enjoy being with you.”

He touched his fingers to his brow and shook his head. “If you’re looking for a best friend,” he said, “you can count me out. I’ve no wish to step into your husband’s shoes. Is that all? Because if it is, I should like to go to my bed.”

The barbs were sharper than she’d anticipated, but she could tolerate them, up to a point. Keeping her voice easy and inoffensive, she said, “No, it’s not all. I don’t want you to step into John’s shoes. I haven’t changed my mind. I’m not looking for a husband. I want you to be my lover.”

“Your lover! So we’re back to that, are we?”

“What is
wrong
with you?” she cried out, her patience—never her strong point—at an end. “One minute you’re kissing me and comforting me, and the next all you want to do is quarrel. If I mention John’s name, you foam at the mouth.”

Violence flashed in his eyes. “I don’t want to hear about John Chesney, do you understand? If I never hear his name again, it will be too soon for me, so don’t mention it in my hearing.”

At first, she was crushed, then she was angry, blazingly angry. She was baring her soul to him, trying to explain why she wasn’t the right woman for him, and all he could do was sneer in that nasty way of his. If he had one sensitive bone in his body, he would see that she needed to be comforted, not reviled.

Her chin lifted. “John, John, John,” she said.

“I’m warning you, Jo!”

She put her hands on her hips. “John, John—”

She heard the rush of his breath before he clamped his arms around her and crushed her mouth beneath his. A moment later, they broke apart, stunned by the ferocity of that kiss. His eyes were wildly dilated; her breath was coming thick and fast. They stared, they shook their heads, then they fell on each other as though they were locked in mortal combat.

He’d promised himself that the next time they made love, he was going to show her that the pleasure could be slow and easy. But he was in the grip of some primitive emotion that had nothing to do with pleasure. He wanted to drive every vestige of John Chesney from her mind and heart. He wanted to fill her with himself, stamp her with his own impression so that it would be
his
name she remembered and only his.

Still locked together, they edged to the bed and toppled upon it. His mouth on hers filled her with heat, waves of it, submerging her in sensation. It was just like the last time, yet it was different. Waldo was different. She could taste the desire on his lips and something else, something wild and desperate.

On an impatient oath, he dispensed with her negligee, then yanked her nightgown to her waist so that he could feast on her breasts. At the first touch of his lips and tongue, she gasped, but as he continued to play with her, she writhed and arched, offering him more. Never had she known such desperation. Every touch and caress made her ache to feel more. “Waldo,” she said, “Waldo,” trying to convey her urgency.

When he heard his name, he laughed softly, his warm breath fanning across one distended nipple as he laved it with his tongue. That soft laugh dispelled some of the sensual haze that enveloped her. Rising to her knees, she loomed over him and began to tear at his clothes. He was as eager to be free of them as she was to free him. When he was down to bare skin, he rose to his knees beside her on the bed.

It wasn’t urgency she felt now so much as awe. He went perfectly still as her hands brushed over powerfully corded muscles and hard flesh. Her fingers lifted when she found the long scar that ran from his shoulder to his navel. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him naked, but that other time was a blur. Her hands dipped lower.

He grasped her wrist before her fingers could close around his member. “Oh, no,” he said. “Not this time. This time, I lead, you follow.”

Teeth gritted, she said, “Waldo Bowman—” then she shrieked when he rolled with her on the bed.

He came out on top. Smiling, eyes glinting, he said, “You’ve caused me a lot of grief, Jo, but finally you’re beginning to make up for it.”

“I could say the same about you.”

He was smiling when his lips met hers, but the smile disintegrated when he took her cry of arousal into his mouth. He had never wanted like this. His heart was racing, his blood was pounding, he could hardly get his breath. It wasn’t enough for him. He wanted her to feel everything that he was feeling, to ache as he ached.

He pinned her arms above her head and exploited every pleasure point he remembered, her throat, her ears, the underside of her breasts. He dipped lower toward the heat between her thighs. She didn’t struggle or fight him. At every caress of his lips and tongue, she sobbed with pleasure, little sounds that drove him wild. He was obsessed with her, with her scent and flavor, with the softness of her skin, the silky feel of her hair.
Mine
, he thought,
all mine
, and wondered what she would do if he dared voice what he was thinking. The thought made him smile.

Her mind was storing up impressions—pictures, feelings, sensations—that she would take with her when she left this place, impressions that would warm her when she was alone once more. She hadn’t known that a lover could make her feel strong and helpless at the same time, or that he could be both greedy and generous. Not a lover, but Waldo. She would never forget him. He might think that he could forget her, but she was going to show him how wrong he was.

On a half moan, she rolled, freeing her hands and rising above him. His body fascinated her. He had learned all her secrets, now she wanted to learn his. She pressed her lips to his throat, to his shoulder, and traced the path of his scar with her tongue. As she dipped lower, she could hear his breath straining in his lungs, could feel the rise and fall of his chest. She prolonged the torture, reveling in her power. No one had ever wanted her like this. She wanted everything from him and more.

Suddenly, she felt herself spinning, and he was over her, pinning her to the mattress. She could see his face in the candlelight, heavy-lidded and harsh with passion. There was something important she wanted to tell him, but the thought wouldn’t form, so she murmured his name instead.

Eyes locked on hers, he spread her legs. The muscles in his arms bunched and strained as he slowly entered her. She had braced for pain, but there was no pain this time, and her breath came out in a long, shuddering sob.

His lips sank into hers in a slow, proprietary kiss, then he thrust deeply, fusing their bodies into one. Sensation became unbearable, then burst through her like shattering crystal. He watched the rapture take her, then followed her over the edge.

Breathless and dazed, Waldo collapsed against her. They lay for long minutes, panting, trying to get their breath. Finally, he rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. There was a big smile on his face. He knew how to make her forget about John Chesney.

“What are you smiling about?”

She was sitting up, leaning over him, her hair veiling her breasts. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. She looked dazed and love-sleepy, just the way he wanted her to look.

He reached out and dragged her into the shelter of his body. “I’m smiling,” he said, “because you made me happy. Don’t I make you happy, Jo?”

It seemed a tepid word to describe the storm of emotions he had aroused in her. “Very,” she said.

“Then,” he turned into her, “why don’t we make a habit of it? Marriage, Jo. If we were married, we could make each other happy morning, noon, and night, and no one could object.”

She freed herself from his arms and sat up, half turned away from him. Her breathing was still ragged. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before you pounced on me. You need heirs and I can’t give you one. That’s why we can’t marry.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Or was I mistaken? When you mentioned ‘the perfect solution’ earlier, what did you mean?”

“Exactly what you thought I meant.”

“There you are, then. I was married for four years but never conceived. We know that my husband had a child. When you add it all up, what it amounts to is that I’m . . . well, incapable of having children.”

“I don’t accept that. Four years isn’t that long. But if children meant so much to you, why didn’t you marry again?”

“Because I loved John, of course! And I didn’t know you existed, did I?”

He realized that she’d told him far more than she’d meant to. Biting down on a smile, he anchored her with one arm across her breasts, her back resting against his chest. “Oddly enough,” he said, “begetting heirs has never been one of my ambitions. And I have an heir—my cousin, Thomas.”

“Tell that to your father. He won’t be too happy to see Palliser Park go outside the family.”

“Thomas isn’t outside the family. Besides, how will my father know?”

“What?”

“He won’t be here to see it unless, God forbid, I die prematurely. No more about heirs, Jo. You know it’s just a convenient excuse. Either you want to make a life with me or you don’t.”

She turned in his arms so that she could see his face. “Let’s not argue. Let’s not make promises we can’t keep. I’m happy with the way things are.”

The tension in him suddenly relaxed. He took her face between his hands. “Oh, Jo. What a coward you are. There is only one good reason for us to marry. One of us has to be the first to say it, and I’ve decided it should be you.”

The words,
I love you
, hung on the air. She gulped down a breath. “You’re talking in riddles.”

“Am I? Then let’s stop talking. You wanted us to be lovers. So love me.”

She was about to protest that she hardly had enough energy to keep her eyes open when his fingers found her and gently probed. A wave of heat flamed through her, making her gasp for air.

“You were saying?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

He took her words into his mouth. And not long after, apart from little moans and sighs, speech became impossible.

C
hapter
23

I
t seemed to Jo that their investigation into Chloë’s disappearance had slowed to a halt. There were any number of things that struck odd notes, but nothing solid to go on. Now all their hopes were pinned on Morden panicking when he read the piece she’d written for Chloë’s column, the piece about Chloë selling her memoirs to a prestigious London publisher.

She still wasn’t convinced it would work. If Morden had killed Chloë and disposed of her body, he would know he had nothing to fear. You couldn’t tell Waldo that. Morden, he said, was worried about something that was connected to Chloë, and even if all they did was discover what it was, it might lead them to Chloë’s final resting place.

She wanted time on her own to think. As a result, she’d called a halt to her involvement with the Bowmans. While they’d gone off in various directions, she had sat down at the writing table in her chamber and thought of nothing but Chloë. It always came back to the same puzzling things: What happened to the chaise that was to take Chloë from Brinsley Hall to Stratford? Where was Chloë’s notebook? Where was her box with all her clothes? Why was there a delay in her letter arriving at the
Journal
’s offices?

If she could answer those questions, she would have the answer to who murdered Chloë and why.

Sighing, she got up and stretched her cramped muscles. There must be something she could do. She hadn’t talked to Lady Brinsley, but it wasn’t for the want of trying. Whenever she called at the house, she was told that her ladyship wasn’t receiving visitors. She’d already talked to Lady Langston, and Ruggles had questioned all the other guests at the house party. So where did that leave her?

She had nothing to lose by calling on Lady Brinsley again. And if she wasn’t at home, she knew where she would get a warm reception. Lady Langston was always pleased to see her.

She’d forgotten about Harper. He was her bodyguard, so when she sent the footman to get some sort of conveyance to take her to town, Harper came with it, a one-horse buggy with enough room for only two people. She’d hoped that the head coachman might give her Lady Fredericka’s spanking new phaeton with its big yellow wheels and matched pair of white horses, or “grays” as the horsey set liked to call them. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Harper kept one hand on the reins, reached down the other, and hoisted her in. “She may not look like much, but old Bess here,” he patted the side of the coach, “is as solid as a house. They don’t make ’em like her anymore. She won’t tip over in a gust of wind or when we turns a sharp corner, not like those fashionable curricles and phaetons that are all the rage.”

She could tell from his tone of voice that he didn’t think much of “fashionable.” He was looking at her, waiting for her to make some comment. And then it came to her. Waldo had told her that Harper’s first love was coaches—building them, driving them, restoring them—and that when he finally retired from the service, he was going to go into business with a friend, restoring broken-down coaches.

“She looks splendid,” she said, injecting enthusiasm into her voice. “Is this one of the coaches you’ve restored, Mr. Harper?”

It was all the encouragement he needed, and on the short drive to town, he gave her a running commentary on all the improvements he’d made to make Bess first in her class.

Things turned out as she expected. Lady Brinsley was not receiving visitors, but Lady Langston gave her a warm reception, though, the maid said cheerily, it wasn’t the best time to call. There were workmen in the conservatory taking measurements for a new, improved heating system, but her ladyship never turned away visitors, and so it was.

“Any news of Chloë?” was the first thing Lady Langston said when she came into the room.

“Nothing definite.” Jo knew she had to tread carefully here. She didn’t want to say anything that might jeopardize Waldo’s plan for entrapping Morden. “The latest gossip is that she’s in Paris.”

“Yes, I heard that too.”

This was said with such a long face that Jo was prompted to say, “But you don’t think so?”

“I
hope
it’s true, as all her friends must, but I can’t shake the awful suspicion that something dreadful has happened to her, and Elinor agrees with me.”

“Elinor?” Jo straightened in her chair. “You mean Lady Brinsley?”

Lady Langston nodded. “You just missed her. She’s helping me with plans for my conservatory. I was hoping to model the heating system on the one in her conservatory, you know, in the manner of the Romans? But I think it’s going to be too expensive. Those Romans had slaves to do all the work. I’ll have to pay workmen’s wages.”

Jo wanted to talk about Lady Brinsley, not conservatories, and knew that if she wasn’t careful they’d be talking about gardening till the cows came home. With Harper it was coaches. He and her ladyship were both fanatics in their different ways.

She said vaguely, “We could learn a lot from the Romans.”

“That’s what Elinor says.”

This was the opening she wanted. “I’m surprised that Lady Brinsley was well enough to visit. I heard that she wasn’t receiving visitors or going out and about.”

Lady Langston laughed. “Oh, Elinor would receive you soon enough if you came bearing a rare plant or were a member of the Horticultural Society. But, to be fair, she’s not that well. She doesn’t care for London, and if it were not that she had to make the effort to attend parties and so on for her son’s betrothed, I doubt that she would come up to town at all.”

When Jo did not respond but merely looked thoughtful, Lady Langston said, “Is something wrong?”

Jo flashed a smile. “No, no. It’s just that I was hoping to talk to her about Chloë, but the maid always tells me that her ladyship is not at home.”

“And now you know why.”

“Will she be coming to see you again? If so, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I came too?”

Her ladyship’s plump cheeks bunched as she smiled. “I’ll do better than that,” she said. “I’ll take you to see her tomorrow, if you can spare the time. We’re all going out to the Hall to view the gardens. We’ve been invited to stay the night, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s not that far away. You could leave before dinner and be home in time for a late supper.”

“Who has been invited to the Hall?”

“The members of our little gardeners’ group. We’re all avid gardeners, but there aren’t too many of us. I know Elinor would be delighted to see you. Some famous gardener whose name I can’t recall is going to speak to us about landscape design. Don’t let that put you off. It’s all very informal.”

The polite thing to do was make an excuse for why she could not accept. To attend a private party without the hostess’s knowledge would be an act of unmitigated impertinence. On the other hand, finding out what had happened to Chloë was more important than offending Lady Brinsley. Add to that the lure of speaking with some of the people who had been at the house party, and she didn’t see how she could refuse.

Lady Brinsley solved her dilemma. “The invitation was extended to anyone who is a member of or a friend of our society, so no one will think it odd to see you there.”

“Thank you,” Jo said, “I should like that very much.”

Lady Langston beamed. “Who knows, perhaps we’ll make a convert of you and adopt you into our little society.”

It wasn’t until after refreshments were served that Jo managed to steer the conversation away from gardening and back to Chloë. It was impossible to be diplomatic, so she asked her questions straight out, but her ladyship was no more help this time than she’d been the first. She didn’t know about the chaise or Chloë’s notebook or Chloë’s letter. Everything seemed normal on the morning of their departure.

It was time to go.

Lady Langston walked Jo to the door. They were both subdued, both thinking of Chloë. Lady Langston said, “We made a wager, you know, Chloë and I. That last night, before going to bed. It was all good fun. I won and she lost. She said she’d pay me when she got back to town. It seemed so normal. We were looking forward to the summer. How could things have gone so wrong?”

Jo said something soothing, but what she wanted to do was pounce. This was the first she’d heard of a wager. She said casually, “What did you wager on?”

“The viscount’s birthday. Chloë said that he was born the day his grandfather died, but I knew she was wrong. I was there at the old earl’s funeral. Elinor was there too. There was no baby. I think she’d given up hope by then of ever having children. The viscount was born six months later.”

Jo felt as though she’d just inhaled a powerful stimulant. All her faculties sharpened. This was one of the odd items that had cropped up in Chloë’s column. “What did Chloe say?”

“She was under the misapprehension that the old earl died in June, on the same day that Victor was born. But of course, he died the December before that.”

“How did you settle the argument?”

“I asked the viscount. He said that I was right and Chloë was wrong. I think the confusion came from Elinor. It’s no secret that her nerves are not very strong. She takes something for them from time to time, and that’s when she becomes confused.”

“And when she’s not taking something for her nerves?”

Lady Langston sighed. “She cries a lot. It’s a vicious state of affairs, isn’t it?”

When she had seen Jo out, her ladyship returned to the parlor in a thoughtful frame of mind. On thinking over what she’d said, it seemed to her that she’d made Elinor out to be much less than she was. No one could be more lucid and enthusiastic than Elinor when she was talking about gardening. But Mrs. Chesney would see for herself at Brinsley Hall.

On that thought, she sat down at her writing table and penned a note to her dear friend, advising her that she had invited a young friend, Mrs. Chesney, to attend their little assembly. All going well, she thought they might add another member to the Horticultural Society.

That should cheer Elinor
, she thought, and signed her name. They were always on the lookout for kindred spirits. She got up, called for a footman, and told him to take her note at once to Piccadilly House.

The viscount knew all about his mother’s plans to retire to the country. In fact, he had put the idea into her head. He reckoned that the Hall was where she could do the least damage. Her mind wandered. She had become so indiscreet that she could no longer be trusted. The day was coming when he would have to decide what to do about her, but not until
after
the wedding. Meantime, he monitored her letters and visitors.

He arrived home to dress for dinner and stopped by the hall table to collect the post. One note, obviously hand-delivered, was addressed to his mother. The porter told him it came from Lady Langston. The viscount could not hear Lady Langston’s name without gnashing his teeth. It was her careless remark about his birthday that had been the spur for what followed. He was curious to see what she was up to now.

He took the note and a package that had come by express from Stratford and went upstairs to his study. He knew what was in the package. It would be the latest copy of the
Journal
that Taggart had sent on, and because it was sent by express, it would have reached him a few days earlier than if it had been sent by regular post. Bates had arranged everything, and all that remained to be done now was to cancel the subscription that went to his club.

He read the note first and was appalled, then he was furious. His mother had not told him that she had invited guests to the Hall, the same guests who were present when Lady Langston made her wager, and now this! The Chesney woman was to be one of the party.

Jo Chesney an avid gardener? He didn’t believe it. Jo Chesney was a thorn in his side. She was trying to ferret out information for that unscrupulous paper she published. Or she was trying to entrap him.

Sweat had broken out on his brow. He mopped it with his handkerchief and tried to think what he should do. It was too late to stop his mother. She had already left. But it wasn’t too late to call on Lady Langston and tell her that his mother wasn’t fit to host a gathering of the blasted Horticultural Society. And how had his mother managed to invite people to the Hall without his knowledge?

He had to think calmly and rationally and not act out of temper. He said the words over and over in his mind until gradually a measure of control returned. Setting aside Lady Langston’s note for the moment, he opened the package from Stratford. As expected, it contained the latest copy of the
Journal
, with Lady Tellall’s column.

He scanned the back page and soon found what he wanted, another reference to Lady Webberley. Chloë was in Paris and had sold her memoirs to a prestigious London publisher.

His hand trembled; he couldn’t breathe, not in fear but in fury. If she had been standing in front of him, he would have killed her again and taken great pleasure in doing it. They’d once been lovers. He had indulged her. He had told her things about himself he’d never told another soul. The deceiving bitch had stored everything away in her phenomenal memory to use against him when it could hurt him the most. She wasn’t going to get away with it.

For a full minute, he sat with his elbows on his desk and his clenched fists pressed to his brow. Gradually, the angry color in his cheeks receded and his breathing evened.

He was back to the same old dilemma. Was Chloë dead or had she somehow survived and crawled out of the pit he’d put her in?

Impossible!

Then this must be a trap, engineered by the Chesney woman to discover where he’d hidden Chloë’s body.

He felt tears start to his eyes, as though he were a little boy again. Papa wouldn’t like to see those tears. Papa didn’t like boys who whined or made excuses. He had to be manly. He had to stand on his own two feet and make Papa proud of him. He must never forget that he was a Brinsley. It was the family name as well as the title. Earl Brinsley—that was his father’s title, and one day it would be his.