The Earl's Complete Surrender (18 page)

Startled by it, she got to her feet. He rose as well and was now watching her with a great deal of curiosity. “I think I may know where the entrance to the attic is,” she said, needing the focus that the search for the journal offered. Her feelings, her nerves, they were far too difficult to untangle now after the kiss they'd just shared.

“Why didn't you say something earlier?” he asked. There was no censure behind the question, but a great deal of interest.

She shrugged, then caught herself. “Because when I found you, you had just been hurt in a fight with Scarsdale. Lady Duncaster was here as well and then . . .”

“Then what?”

Swallowing her fears, she allowed her gaze to meet his. “She left,” she whispered. He nodded, the intensity of his eyes demanding the truth. “And then you kissed me and I forgot about the journal completely.”

“I understand,” he said, still watching her closely.

“You do?”

“I forgot about it too while we were . . .” he glanced down at the sofa, then looked directly at her once more. “Next time, I intend to get you completely undressed.”

“Next time?” she winced at the squeaky sound of her voice but quite frankly, how was she expected to speak properly considering what Woodford had just told her?

He gave a curt nod, adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and said, “Now then, where do you think the entrance to the attic is located?”

Chloe blinked. His sudden professionalism was impressive. “Spencer has been working on a model replica of Thorncliff for a few weeks now,” she said. “To that end, he has borrowed the blueprints of the house from Lady Duncaster and made copies. Claiming an interest, I asked if I could take a look at them. He had no objections and I soon found the room in which I believe the stairs to the attic must be hidden.”

“And?” Woodford asked, clearly eager to discover the location.

“As far as I can tell, they are in the armory.”

Woodford frowned. “I looked there already but found nothing.”

“Let's look again,” Chloe suggested. “Together this time. If I am correct, then they should be on the exterior wall close to the window.”

“If you are correct,” Woodford said as he crossed to the door and opened it for her, “we may be able to find out who The Electors are today.” A shiver traced Chloe's spine as she exited the parlor and waited for Woodford to follow. Knowing the identities of the men responsible for her grandfather's death was both tempting and terrifying. The danger she courted was real. She knew this. And yet she could not help herself from delving deeper—­especially not with a man like Woodford by her side.

Five minutes later, they entered the armory, where a lance-­wielding knight dressed in armor sat astride the armor-­clad model of a horse. The floor was checkered marble with alternating black and white squares, the coffered ceiling intricately carved, and the wood-­paneled walls embellished with moldings displaying a vast collection of swords and firearms. It was a stunning room—­a very masculine room.

“Spencer told me that when Thorncliff was last renovated, Lady Duncaster decided to remove the old wooden stairs leading up to the attic from the third floor and cut off access completely from that part of the house,” Chloe said as she studied the wall in front of her. If Spencer's sketch of the blueprints was accurate, then the door should be . . . frowning, she crossed to a high-­backed gothic chair standing against the wall and placed her hand upon it. If there was a secret doorway here, it probably worked in the same way as the ones leading into the secret passageways. Determined to try, she gave the chair a hard nudge. A click sounded and the wall swung open to reveal a winding stone staircase with wide steps.

“Well done,” Woodford said as he stepped up beside her. “I doubt I would have found this without you.”

Chloe beamed, pleased by the compliment. “I am sure you would have done so eventually.”

“Unlikely,” he insisted, then extended his hand to indicate the stairs. “After you.”

Entering the stairwell, Chloe shivered in response to the chill within while Woodford took up the rear—­a comforting warmth behind her.

The climb was long and tedious, passing the second floor completely without a chance to exit. Finally, an opening appeared and Chloe stepped out into a vast space that smelled of dry wood and dust. Chloe's jaw dropped. The attic was huge and not entirely empty, she noted, as her gaze traveled across collections of old paintings, furniture, boxes and crates. “This will take forever,” she groaned.

“Let's hope not,” Woodford said, arriving at her side. “If we're lucky, there will be some degree of order to it.”

Chloe nodded as she moved toward the first collection of boxes on her right. It made sense that everything was arranged by whom they'd belonged to—­carried up and placed here as the person had passed on. Granted, there would be the odd piece of rejected furniture, especially since Lady Duncaster had remodeled, but in general, Chloe believed that Woodford would be right.

Opening the first box, she studied the contents while Woodford moved toward a large trunk and lifted the lid to peer inside, clearly eager to proceed with his own search. Time passed, filled with the discovery of old gowns, tablecloths, glassware and even a collection of pressed flowers.

“Did you find anything yet?” Chloe asked as she reached for yet another box.

Woodford grunted. “I can assure you that you would know it if I had. There's nothing but old clothes in here, but I am determined to examine every pocket before dismissing it completely.”

“Right.” Chloe opened her box and discovered a pile of neatly folded letters. Carefully, she reached inside and retrieved one, unfolded it and studied the writing. “This is from my grandfather,” she said, her fingers trembling in response to the unexpected discovery.

“Are you sure?” Woodford asked, pausing to look at her.

“Without a doubt.”

Rising, he came toward her. “Then let's continue our search here. If the journal exists, it must be close.”

Agreeing, Chloe set the box of letters aside and glanced toward a Louis the Fourteenth table, its surface white with dust. Some smaller boxes were clustered together on top of it. “I'll attack these then,” she said as she left Woodford's side. She pulled one of the boxes toward her, etching a trail in the dust. Disliking the feel of it upon her fingers, she wiped them on her gown without thinking and promptly groaned. “I should have brought a smock or an apron. I'm not dressed for this sort of thing.”

“You could always put this on,” Woodford spoke from behind her.

Turning, her fingers still resting on the box she'd claimed, Chloe immediately laughed at the sight of a gentleman's military coat complete with epaulets at the shoulders. “I don't think so,” she said.

“Whyever not?” He studied the coat as if hoping to discover the reason for her rejection of it. “I imagine you'd look very fine in it.”

“I would be completely lost in it. No doubt the third Earl of Duncaster was a large man. But I am a rather petite woman in case you failed to notice.”

Abandoning the coat, Woodford took her in with glistening eyes. Chloe caught her breath, her mouth suddenly dry. She licked her lips involuntarily, watching as the corner of his mouth lifted. “It's impossible not to,” he murmured.

Chloe's heart trembled in her chest and she knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was not only at risk, but that she was no longer entirely sure if she could protect it.

So she said nothing as she turned away, forcing her attention back to the box before her, perplexed by this strange new relationship that she'd embarked on.

Rifling through the contents, she pushed aside a selection of slightly flattened wigs. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that fashion no longer requires these.” She held one up for Woodford to see. “Can you imagine? It must have been horribly hot and itchy during the summer.”

“Lady Duncaster seems to enjoy them, but I agree with you. It's a wonder that they used to be as popular as they were.” He dragged another trunk out from underneath a table, grunting slightly from the exertion. It seemed heavy. “You may blame King Louis the Thirteenth for that, you know.” He spoke as he undid the clasp on the trunk and lifted the lid. “The French monarchy suffered from hereditary male baldness and King Louis was apparently particularly sensitive about it, so he decided to compensate by wearing a very elaborate wig—­much longer and curlier than the one you just showed me—­and since France was also considered the cultural center of Europe back then, the craze took on.”

Woodford pulled some items from the trunk and fell silent as he proceeded to study them with quick precision while Chloe moved on to the next ­couple of boxes, swiftly dismissing them each in turn when she saw that they contained nothing but fripperies. “I knew this would take us forever,” she said. Disheartened, she looked around, acknowledging that since their arrival in the attic they had only investigated a small fraction of its contents.

James said nothing as he pulled a velvet-­clad item from beneath a pile of neatly folded clothes inside the trunk. It was hard and square-­shaped.

Lifting one knee, he placed the item upon it and started unraveling it until he'd revealed an old book dressed in brown leather. He swallowed deeply as he carefully turned back the cover, discovering a page with curling script that read . . . he squinted at the text, then shook his head with bewilderment and flipped the page. Here, neat writing flowed from top to bottom, as was the case with the rest of the pages in the book. The problem was that the words made no sense. “Do you understand what this says?” he asked, turning back toward Lady Newbury and handing her the book. “Perhaps with your linguistic experience you'll be able to decipher the language.”

He waited patiently while she studied the pages, eventually shaking her head. She looked up at him. “This isn't written in any of the languages I recognize, although considering the roman alphabet and the composition of the words, I suspect it must be either Germanic or Latin in origin.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “Is this the book?”

“I do not know, but it's a fair guess, and since the language seems undiscernible, there is a chance that it may have been written in code.”

Lady Newbury nodded. “If that is the case, then we're looking at a far greater task than a mere translation.”

He noted the firm set of her jaw. “Do you think you're up to the challenge?”

“At the risk of disappointing you, I am happy to give it a try.”

Rising, he offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. “My lady,” he said, keeping his tone low as he brushed a gray smudge from her cheek with his thumb, “you could never disappoint me. Not in a million years.”

Her eyes widened with understanding, and he turned away, determined not to get lost in the moment. If the book they'd just found turned out to be the
Political Journal,
then they could not afford to waste precious time discussing this thing developing between them. A strong attraction went without saying, but James suspected that there might be more—­enough at least to demand his complete attention as soon as his mission had been completed.

 

Chapter 15

F
or the next two days, Chloe immersed herself in the book that Woodford had found in the attic, thrilled with the challenge it posed. She had always loved puzzles and riddles.

She studied a sentence, but now that she had allowed her mind to settle on
him
, she could not seem to dislodge him again. The way he'd looked at her in the attic when he'd said that she couldn't disappoint him, had melted her heart. They'd had other similar moments that day, moments where he had seemed quite eager to pull her into his arms again and kiss her with abandon.

Her fingers strayed to her lips at the memory of what they had shared in the small parlor earlier, and heat immediately followed. Heavens, she'd behaved completely out of character! She had also enjoyed every moment of it. A knock sounded. Most likely a maid or one of her sisters.

Folding up the pieces of paper strewn about on her bed and placing them neatly inside her Bible, she went to the door and opened it, finding Woodford there, hat in hand. “My lord,” she whispered, looking anxiously around the corridor to ensure that nobody witnessed him calling on her in her bedchamber.

He looked just as disturbed by his presence there as she felt. “Forgive me,” he whispered, “but I wished to know if you have discovered anything.”

“Allow me to fetch my bonnet and we can go for a stroll in the garden. Meet me at the bottom of the stairs.” With that, she closed the door without waiting for him to respond, her breaths coming a little too fast as she leaned back against the door and tried to compose herself. He'd caught her off guard and she had not been ready. Placing her palms against her cheeks, she felt the heat there and knew she must be blushing. Oh dear lord, he was completely unraveling her!

On a deep inhale of air, she snatched up her bonnet, exited her bedchamber and headed for the stairs, finding him there exactly where she'd asked him to wait, looking even more handsome than he had done five minutes earlier. Perhaps his relaxed pose as he leaned casually against a marble column was what did it. Stiffening her spine, she made her way toward him. She would not behave like an addled girl straight out of the schoolroom.

“I think it's a cipher,” she told him as they strolled down toward the lake, “but it isn't a simple one since there are no single-­letter words.”

“Perhaps they've been deliberately joined to other words in order to hide them?”

“It is possible.” She glanced up at him, noting how serious his expression was. There was no softness about his eyes. “The title on the inside cover might be a clue. It's made up of two words, one of which contains nine letters:
lutavarki
. Coincidentally,
political
contains nine letters too, as does the German
politisch
and the Latin
politicus
. Since the third letter doesn't repeat at the end, I'm dismissing
political
as an option.”

“Did you try replacing letters in other parts of the book according to this idea?”

She nodded. “I did, but to no avail. Whatever the method, it is not as straightforward as I had hoped. How about you? Have you discovered anything else that might prove useful?”

“I recognize some of the handwriting.”

Chloe leaned closer, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Whose is it?”

“The third Earl of Duncaster's.”

Air gushed from Chloe's lungs. “You mean to say that he was actually involved in this . . . this conspiracy? That he didn't just come across the book somewhere but that it may have belonged to him all along?” For some reason she'd imagined the earl in a duel against the evil men whom the book undoubtedly spoke of, that he'd killed at least one of them and taken the book as his prize.

They continued past a row of bushes and reeds on their left until the path opened up to the lake, revealing a grassy embankment sheltered by a copse of trees to the right where the forest began. “We cannot be sure of what his involvement was until we know exactly what the book says.” Bringing them to a halt, Woodford gazed down at her. “Given what we know, I am inclined to believe that we have indeed uncovered the
Political Journal,
which means that I must leave for London immediately.”

Chloe nodded. “Of course. You have to notify the king.”

“I'll find Lambert, get the rest of the text translated with his assistance and—­”

“No. Absolutely not,” Chloe told him firmly. “You and I agreed to collaborate. If you are going to London, then I am coming with you.”

Releasing her arm, Woodford turned to face her. “It's too dangerous. The men involved will do whatever it takes to keep their secret safe. They are murderers, Lady Newbury. You know this!”

“I do. If you'll recall, it is the reason why I was trying to find the journal myself.”

“And then what? How do you plan to apprehend them?”

Unwilling to let him dissuade her, Chloe looked him squarely in the eye. “Mr. Lambert has assured me that once the names have been uncovered, he will see to it that the right ­people are informed.”

“But that was before you learned of my involvement.” He sighed. “Let me deal with this on your behalf, Lady Newbury. I promise you that—­”

She shook her head. “If our roles were reversed, would you allow me to seek justice on your behalf while you remained here? Or would you insist on coming with me? You and I are equally invested in finding these men.”

“Which is why you do not need to come with me. You know that I'll discover who The Electors are because I need to know who killed my own parents. Justice will be served, Lady Newbury, I assure you.”

“It's not that I don't believe you, or that I do not trust you to do what must be done, for indeed you have been nothing but honest with me since the moment we met. But you have to understand that I cannot sit here and do nothing, so either you take me with you, or I shall go to London on my own.”

A deep crease appeared on Woodford's brow as he stared down at her. “How soon can you be ready?”

“Will half an hour do?”

He nodded. “I'll ask the grooms to ready a carriage for you. Take it to Portsmouth and I will join you there. This way nobody will know that we are traveling together.”

They started back, but were met by the sound of voices and immediately froze.

“Lady Dewfield,” Chloe muttered. She had no desire to encounter the widow or whoever she happened to be with. “It sounds as if she's coming our way.”

Woodford nodded stiffly. “Come along,” he said, dragging her sideways toward the wooded area. “We'll hide.”

Chloe didn't argue, allowing the earl to pull her behind a dense cluster of trees only seconds before Hainsworth and Lady Dewfield appeared on the path. Chloe held her breath, though her heartbeat quickened in response to her proximity to Woodford. He was close—­so close she could feel his even breaths against the nape of her neck. His hand rested securely against her waist as if he wished to stop her from giving them away. As if she would.

“Will you allow me to visit you tonight then?” Hainsworth asked, coming to a halt. Raising his hand, he trailed his fingers along the curve of Lady Dewfield's shoulder.

Lady Dewfield chuckled. “To my bedchamber, my lord? Are you mad?”

“No,” Hainsworth muttered as he seized Lady Dewfield by the arm and pulled her against him, “but I would be lying if I said that I do not want you.”

“What about Mrs. Green?” Lady Dewfield asked with a note of resentment as she arched against Hainsworth. “I thought you had your eye on her.”

“I never wanted her for myself, and besides, I believe she lacks your experience,” Hainsworth said.

“And what, pray tell, do you know of my experience?”

Hainsworth grunted. “Nothing, besides what Newbury used to say. He spoke very highly of you.”

Chloe stiffened. So did Woodford. His arm around her tightened.

Lady Dewfield chuckled. “That poor man was so unhappy in his marriage. I cannot imagine why he married that woman when he could have had me.”

“You wished to marry him?” Hainsworth asked, staring down at her. “I wasn't aware.”

“It's not exactly the sort of thing one talks about, but the truth is that I loved him very much.
She
stole him from me. I can never forgive her for that.”

Chloe drew a sharp breath. Lady Dewfield had loved Newbury? And all this time Chloe had thought her sole interest in him had been purely physical. Clearly, Lady Dewfield had not known the same man that Chloe had.

“Hmm . . . Let's forget about both of them, Lady Dewfield. If you don't mind, I would rather not discuss the man you loved while trying to seduce you.”

“Understood,” Lady Dewfield said. She trailed a finger down Hainsworth's chest. “Why haven't you married? You are still a handsome man—­wealthy too, by all accounts. Any woman would be lucky to have you.”

“Perhaps I am still looking for the right one.”

“I don't believe that for a second, my lord.”

“Hmm . . . then perhaps it is because I have no need for a wife. Woodford is like a son to me. He will inherit everything I own and as for my title . . . I believe I have a cousin somewhere.”

“So no wife?” Lady Dewfield asked with a bit of a pout.

Hainsworth shook his head. “Mistresses are much more fun. Did I mention that I am in the market for a new one? If you accept, I'll take good care of you, Lady Dewfield, I assure you.”

Chloe watched in shocked disbelief as Hains­worth reached out and tugged at the countess's bodice, effectively freeing her breasts. Heat curled through her as Hainsworth stroked his fingers across the naked flesh. She closed her eyes, ashamed that she would respond to such a thing and acutely aware that Woodford had pulled her closer, his hand sliding a fraction higher until she felt a distinct and very disturbing flare of desire.

She opened her eyes just in time to see Hainsworth bowing his head. He took one breast in his mouth while Lady Dewfield clutched his shoulders. “My lord—­anyone might happen upon us here.”

Chloe's blood thundered in her ears. She dared not move, dared not look at Woodford for fear that she would see her own hunger mirrored in his eyes, aware that if she did, she would likely beg for him to touch her—to quench the thirst that had most indecently overcome her. God, how she longed for his touch—­more so now that she knew what it did to her.

“That's the fun of it, don't you agree?” Hains­worth asked.

“Perhaps, although I would much prefer a soft mattress beneath me than the trunk of a tree or heaven forbid, the ground. I'll get grass stains on my gown,” Lady Dewfield protested.

With a groan, Hainsworth released her, allowing the countess to put her gown in order before offering her his arm. “You are not as adventurous as I had imagined,” he said as they walked away.

“If adventure is what you seek,” Lady Dewfield replied, her voice fading, “you may indeed visit my bedchamber this evening. I am sure that I can think of many interesting ways in which to accommodate your needs.”

Chloe gasped in response to that implication. She ought not to be so shocked, but her sexual experience during her marriage had been limited. Especially considering how quickly her husband had tired of her after their wedding. After that, their coupling had been rare and uneventful.

“Let us return to the house,” Woodford said, his voice gruffer than usual.

Turning her head, Chloe inhaled sharply as her eyes locked with his. There was an intensity to his gaze that disturbed her nerves. She shivered, but couldn't seem to look away.
Kiss me. Please kiss me again.
Mouth dry, she licked her lips, her heart skipping as he followed the movement.

“We cannot afford to lose any more time,” he said, stepping back and moving around the trees. “Come, Lady Newbury. London awaits.”

“Did you know that Hainsworth was acquainted with Newbury?” she asked, hurrying after him.

“I know that they frequented the same club and that Hainsworth encountered him there on occasion. He never spoke very highly of him though and even complained one time about Newbury claiming Hainsworth's favorite chair there. From what I gather, they never spoke to each other again.”

“Because of a chair?”

Woodford's expression remained unaltered as they came out onto the wide lawn leading up to the house. “Hainsworth has his quirks just like everyone else.”

It was difficult to argue that point, so Chloe said nothing. She parted ways with Woodford at the foot of the stairs with the assurance that they would see each other soon. Back in her room, she wrote a brief note to her mother, explaining that she'd been called back to London by Newbury's heir who wished to discuss her jointure. In short, there was a financial emergency that needed her immediate attention.