The Earl's Complete Surrender (22 page)

He almost groaned at the imagery
that
thought produced and leaned forward slightly, determined to hide the stirring in his groin. Behind him, Lady Newbury dipped a towel into the water and proceeded to wipe away the blood from his ear and neck with hesitant fingers.

“You needn't be so careful,” he said, longing to feel her touch more completely. “It doesn't hurt that much there.”

“Forgive me, but I have never done anything like this before.” She rinsed the towel before returning it to his skin, a little more forcefully this time. “The cuts aren't deep and they appear to be already healing.”

“I told you it was nothing.”

There was a pause. “So you did.” Her hand fell to his shoulder, tracing along it with feather-­soft gentleness. The tension in his muscles eased with the pleasure of it, and, unable to help himself, James allowed a soft groan. Her fingers stilled. “Did I hurt you?”

“I'm fine,” he said, even though he was far from it. He'd just taken a beating, his body was in complete agony and the king was depending on him to uncover a conspiracy that was deeply imbedded within the aristocracy. Yet the only problem his mind seemed willing to focus on right now was how to get Lady Newbury out of her gown and into bed so he could have his way with her. “Please continue.”

The cool towel slid across his shoulder blades and down toward his lower back. “There's some dark purple bruising here,” she told him. “Feel that?”

Sucking in a breath, he nodded as she carefully pressed against his left flank, just above his waistband. “How big is it?”

There was a pause, during which her hand remained completely still. Then, as if she'd just remembered something, she moved away, leaving him bereft. His heart thudded in his chest.

“It runs beneath your breaches,” she finally said, “so I really can't say. Perhaps you can have a look in a mirror?”

“I only keep a small one here. For when I have to shave.”

Water sloshed behind him. “I see,” she eventually said after some silence.

“About the compresses you mentioned earlier,” he began, unsure of how to deal with the awkwardness between them without doing something regrettable and while still maintaining the physical contact he so desperately craved. Damn, he wanted more!

“There's no doubt that you need them,” she said as she went to the side table, snatched up a bottle of sherry and poured some into a glass. James stared at her while she drank, completely mesmerized by the fullness of her lips against the rim of the glass. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.”

She frowned, stared back at him a moment and eventually said, “You'll need to get undressed.”

It didn't matter that she spoke as if informing him of something completely mundane, like the weather. The effect her words had on him—­the implication­—­was nothing short of scandalous. “Hm?” Just an utterance, but it was all he could manage right now, given the situation that he was presently in.

Inhaling deeply, she straightened her back and crossed her arms, which brought his attention to her lovely breasts. God, how he wanted to . . . He cast the thought aside. Unfortunately, she did not look as though she had any plans of accommodating any of his baser desires at present, for her entire face had taken on an expression of sheer determination—­as if a mountain stood before her and she meant to climb it.

“If I am to tend to you properly, then there's really nothing for it,” she said firmly. “Go to your bedchamber and get undressed, then lay on the bed and give me a shout when you are ready. I'll come in and put the compresses on you.”

His heart rate kicked up, accompanied by a tantalizing heat in the pit of his stomach. “You don't have to do this,” he said, determined to give her the choice she deserved, because if she really wanted to resist him as much as she indicated, seeing him naked was hardly going to help.

“I can be professional about this,” she said in a manner suggesting that she was trying to convince herself more than him. “After all, I did grow up with two brothers, one older and one younger. In addition to that, I was married for six years, so there's no reason why we cannot be practical.”

James could think of several reasons, but chose not to mention them as he quietly gathered his shirt, stood up and headed toward his room. If he was lucky, he'd find a way out of this hellish predicament soon, but instinct told him that it wasn't going to be easy. If he was going to have a physical relationship with Lady Newbury, assurances would have to be made, which meant that he was going to have to give the matter some serious consideration. Acting rashly would serve neither of them any good.

A
s soon as Woodford was out of sight, Chloe practically collapsed against the sideboard. Heavens, she'd never seen such a well-­defined chest as the one he possessed. It was lean and firm, fairly rippling with muscles. Her insides still squirmed with the recollection of it.

And his back! Who would have guessed that seeing the wide expanse of it, of being permitted to touch it as she pleased, would fill her with such desperate longing. As much as she'd tried to remain indifferent, her efforts had failed completely. Of course, the matter was only made worse by the memory of what it was like to kiss him—­to feel his touch.

She shook her head. Somehow she would have to resist the temptation he offered, not just for the sake of her sanity, but for the sake of her heart.
I must not fall for this man
. But to say that she wasn't half in love with him already, would be a lie. The crippling distress she'd felt when he'd been harmed, told her so. Lord help her, what was she going to do?

“I'm ready,” she heard him call out from his room down the hall.

Chloe blinked. “I'll be there in a moment.” She'd been woolgathering and had completely forgotten about the compresses. Taking a breath, she retrieved the bowl of water from the table next to the chair where Woodford had been sitting, and headed toward the kitchen. Gathering a few more linen towels from the stack she'd found earlier, she then approached the door to Woodford's bedchamber on leaden legs. She hesitated briefly before raising her hand and knocking.

“Come in!”

Swallowing her apprehension, she carefully pushed down on the handle and allowed the door to swing open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished bedchamber with a large bed and a very naked earl sprawled scandalously across the center of it. Chloe's heart almost seized inside her chest. She clutched the water bowl and towels more firmly, fearing she might accidentally drop them. So much for her guaranteed professionalism!

Slowly, she stepped into the room. Her stomach felt like it was being sucked out through her navel while a feverish shiver spread across her shoulders like a shawl. Perhaps if she looked away? An impossible task. It was as if her eyes were glued to his body—­his well-­defined calves, the strong contours of his thighs and the solid curve of his perfectly proportioned backside. Newbury had
never
looked like this. Chloe stared. Woodford was clearly in excellent physical condition, a Greek God brought to life and lying naked before her. Dear God, she was out of her depth.

“Having second thoughts?” Woodford asked. His face was turned sideways, away from her.

She bit her lip, embarrassed that he'd noticed her hesitation. “Not at all,” she lied, walking further into the room. “I was just wondering how to proceed.”

“Whenever you're ready,” he murmured.

Forcing her mind to the task at hand, Chloe approached the bedside table and set the bowl of water down. She took another look at Woodford, trying only to focus on his injuries this time. The darkest bruise was the one she'd noted earlier, running from his left flank down over his left buttock and across his hip. Another one, more greenish in tone, graced his right shoulder while a few other minor ones dotted his arms and legs.

Stiffening her spine, Chloe dipped a towel in the water and wrung it out, then leaned across the bed and placed the towel carefully on Woodford's shoulder. “How does that feel?” she asked.

“Wonderful,” he murmured.

Reassured by his approval, Chloe proceeded to place the rest of the compresses until only one remained. Clutching another damp towel in her hands, she stared down at the purple bruise. Her fingertips practically tingled with the anticipation of touching him there, even as she feared the consequence of doing so. Worst of all, she knew she wouldn't be able to reach him properly from where she was standing. Her heart quickened and her hands began to tremble. You can do this, she told herself.

Determined to help him heal, Chloe perched herself on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped ever so slightly and Woodford groaned. “Are you all right?” Chloe asked, concerned that the movement might have hurt him.

“Some slight discomfort,” he said.

“I just have to put the last compress on you and then I can leave you to rest.” When he didn't reply, she arranged the towel until she'd formed a long length of neatly folded fabric. Reaching out, she lowered it carefully over the bruise, but flinched and drew back when Woodford grunted. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don't be.” He moved slightly as if adjusting his position, then said, “It's just really sore right there.”

Chloe nodded, even though he couldn't see it. “Do you mind if I try again?”

She heard him suck in a breath. “No.”

Her heart went out to him, poor man. She admired him for withstanding the temporary discomfort of being tended to in favor of the relief that was bound to come from it. Determined to help as best she could, she lowered the towel again. She took her time now, ensuring that the fabric covered the bruise properly. When her fingers grazed his flesh, his entire body clenched against the touch, and she apologized again for causing him pain.

“I'll be fine,” he muttered, his voice a little hoarse. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said as she got up and hurried toward the door, adding distance. Pausing, she asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He coughed, then groaned again. “Not right now.”

“Very well then. Try to get some rest and I'll be back in half an hour to change the compresses,” she said, upon which she quit the room in favor of the one on the opposite side of the hallway which had been allocated to her.

Once inside and with the door shut firmly behind her, Chloe released a quivering breath and pressed a clammy palm to her forehead. Her entire body was humming with nervous energy, her legs too weak for her to stand. Expelling a deep breath, she flung herself on the bed and made a deliberate effort to force her mind away from Woodford and back to the journal. If she could only focus on what they were trying to accomplish, then . . . It was to no avail. No matter how hard she tried, Chloe was unable to stop from imagining herself in the arms of a very attractive spy.

 

Chapter 18

A
woken by a heavy knock at the front door the following day, Chloe climbed out of bed and went to inform Woodford in case he was still sleeping. She'd changed his compresses several times throughout the night, happy with the relief they appeared to offer and pleased by her increasing ability to tend to him without losing her composure as much as she had the first time. It seemed that knowing what to expect was working in her favor.

But when she knocked on his door, she received no reply. Instead, she heard his voice coming from the parlor. “You shouldn't be here,” he was saying.

“Then you should have been more specific when you left me that note. It said nothing at all, save for the fact that you had found the journal and were heading to London.”

Arriving in the parlor, Chloe saw that the voice belonged to Hainsworth. “My lord,” she said, alerting both gentlemen to her presence.

Hainsworth's smile was tight as he bowed toward her. “Lady Newbury. What a pleasure it is to see you again.” He returned his attention to Woodford. “
I
shouldn't have come, yet you take no issue with risking her ladyship's safety?”

Chloe looked from one man to the other, disliking the angry glower between them. “Perhaps I can take your hat and coat for you, my lord,” she offered Hainsworth.

Some of the tension seemed to ease as Hains­worth nodded. “Thank you, Lady Newbury, you're most kind.”

“Her ladyship was already looking for the journal when I met her,” Woodford explained while Chloe helped Hainsworth with his hat and coat. “Once I discovered this, she and I decided that it would be best for us to work together.”

“Well, I would like to help as well,” Hainsworth said. “If you'll let me.”

Woodford stared at Hainsworth for a long moment. “You know my preference for working alone.”

Hainsworth nodded toward Chloe. “Seems to me that you've already made an exception on that point.”

Passing a hand across his face, Woodford sighed. “Very well then.” He gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat and let's discuss this properly.” His eyes met Chloe's. “How are you?”

The question caught her completely by surprise. “Very well, my lord,” she managed. “And you?”

“Much better, thanks to you, but still rather sore. Another day and I believe I'll be as good as new.”

“Did something happen to you?” Hainsworth asked looking worried.

Woodford began telling him about the events that had taken place since leaving Thorncliff while Chloe went to the kitchen, surprised to find that Woodford must have lit the coals in the stove, for it was hot and ready to use. Food wasn't really an option, but it didn't take long before she'd managed to prepare a pot of tea.

“So if you can deliver a message to the king for me, Hainsworth,” Woodford was saying when Chloe returned to the parlor and set down the tray, “then Lady Newbury and I will seek out Mr. Lambert. Without his help, decoding the book will take a very long time.”

“Is he a specialist at cracking codes?” Hains­worth asked Chloe.

“He's a family friend,” she carefully replied while pouring the tea.

“It's all right,” Woodford said. “You can trust him with the details.”

Comforted by Woodford's faith in Hainsworth, Chloe said, “He's a former spy who's extremely adept at puzzle solving. Years ago, he intercepted a letter sent by The Electors. As long as their encoding hasn't changed, we ought to be able to use that transcript to unlock the writing in the journal.”

Hainsworth's eyebrows shot up. “I'm quite impressed, Lady Newbury.” Taking a sip of his tea, he turned to James. “But wouldn't it be better for you to meet with the king in person? Then I can accompany Lady Newbury over to Lambert's and—­”

“Carlton House is a longer journey and I am still not fully recovered. Besides, and I hope you'll forgive me for saying this, but I cannot place the journal in someone else's safekeeping. If anything were to happen to it or to you as a result of having it in your possession, then I'd never forgive myself.”

“Understood,” Hainsworth said. “Prepare the letter and I'll make sure that King George receives it.”

A
rriving at Lambert's home on Skinner Street, James followed Lady Newbury through a tall gate at the side of the house and toward the back. She gave the door there three short raps in quick succession, followed by two a ­couple of seconds later.

A middle-aged man opened the door. “It's good to see you again, Lady Newbury. Lambert is in his study.”

“Thank you, Yates,” Lady Newbury said. “Will you let him know that we're here?”

“No need,” Yates said, stepping aside so they could enter. “He gave strict orders to show you through the moment you returned, so if you'll please follow me.”

They did as Yates asked and were soon ushered into Lambert's sanctuary. “My dear, Lady Newbury,” the old man spoke from behind his desk. “You're finally back! Come closer and have a seat. You too, Lord Woodford.”

James blinked, a little surprised that Lambert knew who he was since they'd never met each other before. He took a step closer and almost tripped over something at his feet. This was no ordinary study, but rather a cross between a workroom and a library; books were everywhere—­in bookcases, in piles upon the floor and strewn about on every available surface along with maps, parchments and various pieces of foolscap.

“Try not to knock anything over,” Chloe whispered. Leaving his side, she then wove her way forward until she reached the spot where Lambert stood waiting.

James followed, his eyes searching the floor for potential obstacles.

“Do you have it?” Mr. Lambert asked as soon as they'd finished greeting each other.

Reaching inside his jacket pocket, James retrieved the
Political Journal
and handed it to Lambert who studied it for a long moment with undeniable reverence. “Splendid,” he said as he cleared the surface on his desk and set it down. Taking a seat, he gestured for James and Lady Newbury to do the same. “Your grandfather, Henry Heartly, was a close friend of mine, Lady Newbury. I cannot tell you how happy I am to know that his murderers will soon be found.” Opening the journal, he studied the text. “Just as I suspected . . . a cipher—­and one of the more complex varieties.”

“Lady Newbury has assured me that you can help us solve it. I hope that's true, because we're rather short on time.” James gave a brief overview of everything that had happened since they'd found the journal while Mr. Lambert listened, his expression growing increasingly grim by the second.

“I don't like this,” he said. “These men . . . I know what they are capable of.”

“Which is why I'm very surprised that you would let Lady Newbury get involved with this in the first place.” James didn't bother hiding his concern or his disapproval even though he was very much aware of Lady Newbury's critical scowl.

“Lambert isn't to blame for my involvement, Woodford. As I've told you,
I
contacted
him
.”

“He should have dissuaded you,” James said. His hands curled into two tight fists while his mind reached for the image of his mother lying lifeless on the floor as he'd crawled from his hiding place. A shudder touched his spine and he instinctively shook his head.

“Believe me, I tried,” Lambert said, “but Lady Newbury has been very persistent in this matter.” He eyed her briefly before saying to James, “When I received the first letter from her last year, inquiring about her husband's involvement with The Electors and her grandfather's death, I wasn't even sure that I could trust her. Before agreeing to help her, I set up a meeting with her so that she and I could become better acquainted. If you must know, I even had her followed.”

“You did?” Lady Newbury sounded surprised.

“Of course,” Lambert said, unperturbed. “I wasn't going to take you at your word without knowing who you were or who you chose to associate with.”

“You knew my grandparents,” Lady Newbury pointed out.

“And what?” Lambert asked. “Just because they were honorable ­people I'm supposed to assume the same of you?” He shook his head. “I would have been a fool to do so.”

She seemed to concede the point. “Well, at least it all worked out in the end.”

James disagreed. “If you had her followed, then you must have seen her in Scarsdale's company.” Lambert inclined his head, acknowledging the fact. “And this didn't trouble you?

“Why would it?” Lambert asked.

“Because I have every reason to believe that Scarsdale is an Elector,” James said.

Lambert frowned. “Scarsdale? Certainly not!”

James stared back at the man sitting across from him. “His actions at Thorncliff were highly suspicious.”

“It's true,” Lady Newbury said. “We know that Scarsdale was using the secret passageways there because we encountered him in one of them, and although he did have a plausible explanation for being there, there are other things to consider. Like his connection with Newbury. The two were close friends.”

Lambert shook his head. “From what I've seen of him, Scarsdale isn't callous enough.” His eyes met James's. “Don't let Scarsdale distract you from the truth, Woodford. You know as well as I that focusing all of your attention on one puzzle piece alone, can lead you
away
from the truth, rather than toward it.”

“It's possible that you're right, but there's also a very good chance that you're not. Scarsdale fits the description of the man behind the attempted theft at the inn, as well as the attack on me yesterday.” He nodded toward the journal. “We need to decode that book as fast as possible.”

Rising, Mr. Lambert crossed to a bookcase and retrieved a thick notebook. “Years ago, I decoded a letter that I intercepted on its way to Portsmouth. It bore the seal of The Electors and was written in a style similar to the one used in this journal.” His eyes clouded with sadness. “Unfortunately the task was complicated and one that I failed to complete fast enough or Lady Newbury's grandfather might not have perished aboard that ship along with the Earl of Duncaster.”

James glanced toward Lady Newbury. Her eyes were lowered while her lips were pressed together in anguish. “We'll find the men who did this,” he told her. The temptation to reach out and take her hand in his, to offer her comfort, was strong. He resisted it and looked to Lambert instead. “Let's get on with it.”

“Everything we need is right here,” Mr. Lambert said, waving his notebook. “I have inserted the original letter, but after that, you will find the work I did decoding it—­each individual word until it becomes clear what each letter really stands for. With this, we ought to be able to unravel the text in the journal.”

Leaning back against his seat, James allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. They were finally making progress. “How long do you suppose that might take?”

Leafing through the journal, Mr. Lambert shrugged. “I can work through the night—­have it done by morning.”

“We can help,” Lady Newbury said.

James nodded. “I agree, but I'll have to return to the apartment to inform Hainsworth of our whereabouts and to see if he has returned with a message for me from the king.” Rising from his chair he prepared to take his leave when yelling sounded from beyond the closed door to Lambert's study. “What the devil?” He spun toward Mr. Lambert to ascertain his reaction, not the least bit reassured by his anxious expression.

“Get behind the desk,” James told Lady Newbury. “Hide as best as you can.” Removing his dagger from inside his boot, he handed it to her. “Take this, just in case.” Thankfully she did as he asked without arguing.

“That's Yates—­my servant,” Mr. Lambert said in a rush as he gathered the journal and notebook together in one messy pile and thrust them at James who immediately took them. There was a clang, followed by another, then more yelling, and finally . . . “I'm afraid my house has been breached.”

Heart hammering in his chest, mostly out of concern for Lady Newbury, James crossed the floor and put the books inside another pile, hoping to conceal them for as long as necessary. “I'm sorry to have brought this threat upon you, Lambert.”

“I'll forgive you as long as you promise to survive this. England depends on you, Woodford.”

“I'll do my best,” James said. Accepting the sword Mr. Lambert offered him with one hand, he retrieved his pistol with the other just as the door to the study crashed open.

A man clad in black appeared in the doorway. Behind him, sprawled out on the floor, lay the lifeless body of Yates. James's grip on both sword and pistol tightened. He recognized the man instantly, in spite of the scarf that he wore around the lower part of his face. “Blake,” he bit out. “You're supposed to be dead.”