The Marriage Trap (14 page)

He could hardly see his hand in front of his face when he caught up to her. “You should have a lantern outside this door,” he said. “It's as black as pitch down here.”

“There
is
a lantern, but I keep forgetting to light it. Why are you so cross?”

He shoved the bonnet on her head. “I'm cross because . . . oh, hell!”

Since she was already using him as a prop to keep herself from keeling over, it took very little pressure to draw her into his arms. She didn't struggle; she didn't say a word. Their breath mingled, their lips touched. That's all he wanted, one little taste.

Oddly enough, one little taste wasn't enough for him. The flavor of wine slipped from her lips to his, filling his mouth, stealing his breath, his reason. He couldn't help himself, he wanted more. His hand slid onto her nape, dislodging her bonnet. His thumb felt a pulse. The beat of her body found an answering beat in his own.

When she made a small incoherent sound, he raised his head. His breathing was difficult. Between breaths, he got out, “You're a dangerous woman, Ellie Brans-Hill.”

Her response was to loop one arm around his neck and drag his head down to renew the embrace. His arms clamped around her. Their lips clung. The leap to raw passion was instantaneous.

He used his weight to pin her against the wall. Since she wasn't protesting, he unbuttoned her coat and took his fill of her, handling her possessively. Her breasts were small and plump, their crests hardening as he brushed the pad of his thumb over each one in turn. Her mewling sounds drove him on. His hands traced the flare of her hips, splayed wide on her abdomen and moved lower. She was pliant in his hands, pliant and receptive . . .

And inebriated.

He groaned in protest. He didn't want to think about that now. He was so close to taking her. He was hard and hungry, and she was soft and willing.

And innocent and inebriated.

With a savage curse, he dragged himself away from her. His breathing was ragged. She was panting. Gritting his teeth, he said, “I think you had better go in before I do something we'll both regret.”

It took a moment for her breathing to even. “Oh, my” was all she said, and she began to slide down the wall.

Though he was afraid to put his hands on her again, he had no choice. He hauled her up and steadied her with his hands on her waist. “Did you hear me, Ellie?” His eyes had adjusted to the dark, but all he could make out was the shape of her face. He couldn't read her expression or tell what she was feeling.

He could feel her stiffen under his hands. “Don't worry, Jack! I won't tell anyone! You won't be caught in the marriage trap.”

“That's not what I was thinking. And if you knew what was in my mind, you'd get yourself into your house and lock the door on me.”

Another lengthy silence, then she said with a lilt in her voice, “That's the nicest compliment I have ever received.”

“You're tipsy, Ellie. Foxed, in fact. You've had too much to drink.”

“No.” She yawned. “It's Mama's cordial. It's quite powerful.”

“What ‘cordial'?”

“My medicinal tea. I did offer you a cup.”

“Medicinal—? What's in it?”

“The usual, and Mama's secret ingredient.”

Now he was beginning to understand why she was so affectionate and confiding, so much like Aurora.

“Where is your key?”

It was in her reticule, which, along with her bonnet, had fallen to the flagstones in the heat of the moment. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

“I'll get a candle lit,” she said.

“No, I'll do it.”

Her voice fairly crackled. “I am perfectly capable of lighting a candle.”

“Fine, but watch your step.”

He wasn't going to stay for more than a few minutes, just long enough to see her settled. As he carefully edged his way toward the table, he heard flint strike iron as she tried to get a spark going to light the candle. The room smelled of mold, but there was another scent that was familiar, yet out of place.

Brandy.

The instant the thought occurred to him, Ellie screamed and something fell heavily to the floor. Jack started forward and launched himself at a shadow that was moving toward the door. He was checked by a blow from a heavy object that caught him hard across the shoulder. As he stumbled to his knees, the shadow vanished through the door. He could hear the tread of feet racing up the stone stairs.

“Ellie!” he cried out.

“I'm all right . . . just . . . I can't get up. I think I've sprained my ankle.”

He felt his way to Ellie. “Where is the tinderbox?”

“On the floor somewhere. I dropped it when he slammed into me.”

He found the tinderbox and got a candle lit. Ellie let out a soft cry. Someone had ransacked the room. Every drawer was open. Books and papers littered the floor. The curtain to the bed alcove had been torn down and clothes were tossed in a heap on the bed.

“Maybe I wasn't imagining things after all,” she said. “Maybe someone
was
trying to break into my house.”

He looked at her. “When was this?”

“Not long after I got back from Paris. I'd hear footsteps at night on the stairs, so I'd leave a candle on the hearth to scare them off.”

Jack's face was stern. With candle in hand, he examined the door, then the window. “The window has been forced,” he said. “That's how he got in.”

He found the instrument he'd been struck with. It was the poker. After returning it to its nook beside the grate, he turned his attention on Ellie who, by this time, was sitting in a chair. Kneeling down in front of her, he examined her ankle. She could wiggle her toes, but winced when she tried to put her weight on her foot.

“Stay right there,” he told her. “This won't take long.”

He took the stairs to the street. Though it was late, Henrietta Street wasn't exactly a backwater, and there were a few pedestrians there, but no one he recognized, and no one who looked suspicious. It's what he'd expected.

He was in luck. A hackney drew up beside him. “Looking for a ride home, guv'nor?”

“I am. Give me a minute and I'll be right back.”

He returned to Ellie. “We're leaving,” he told her. And to convince her, should she need persuading, “It's too risky to leave you here. He may come back.”

Her eyes went wide and she pressed a hand to her chest. “Why would he do that?”

“He was looking for something, Ellie, and I don't think he found it. I think he was waiting for you.”

She shook her head mutely.

He was losing patience. “I'm not taking ‘no' for an answer.”

Suiting action to words, he swooped down and hoisted her up in his arms. A searing pain tightened the shoulder his assailant had struck, but he ignored it.

As he moved toward the door, she cried out, “I'll need my night things.”

He didn't stop. “I'll take care of that.”

“And . . . who is going to tell my landlady?”

“I'll take care of that, too.”

“But . . . where are you taking me?”

“To my house in Park Street.”

That stopped the flow of questions. Smiling grimly, he maneuvered her through the door.

Lady Raleigh, the dowager, along with her granddaughter, Lady Caro, paid their departing guests the compliment of seeing them off in person. Her ladyship wasn't sorry to see them go. She was well aware that the curious among them had delayed their departure in hopes of coming face-to-face with Jack. It seemed everyone knew about the unfortunate episode in Paris, and wished to know all the salacious details. It was only when she ordered her footmen to stop dispensing wine and brandy that her guests had taken the hint.

There was a crush of people in the spacious marble hallway, laughing and jostling one another while they waited for their respective carriages to be brought round. All things considered, her ladyship was pleased with Caro's first party. Her musicale had given her granddaughter and her friends the opportunity to practice the social graces in a small, intimate setting before the rigors of the season were upon them. That was something she was at some pains to impress upon her granddaughter. There was more to the season than the pleasure of being with one's friends. The old biddies, such as herself, had to be won over, because the old biddies were an influential lot. They were the ones who sent out the gilt-edged invitations or whispered a word in a hostess's ear to ensure that someone's name was added to the invitation list.

Or they could do the reverse.

Caro had not neglected her duty to her grandmother's friends. Even General Baird had come in for his share of attention. As for the veiled questions about Jack and the Brans-Hill girl, Caro had followed her grandmother's advice and replied to every question with words to the effect that Miss Brans-Hill was a friend of the family. They'd known her as long as Caro could remember. It was all a misunderstanding.

This was not to protect Jack's reputation so much as Ellie's. The dowager had always had a soft spot for Ellie and regretted now that she had not kept up with the family. That would be put right, for she had made up her mind to seek Ellie out and use her influence not only to restore Ellie's character, but to find a suitable candidate for her hand in marriage.

She was ticking off in her mind young clergymen of her acquaintance who might do for Ellie, when the front door was thrown open and Jack strode in with a young, disheveled woman held high in his arms. There were a few gasps from guests who did not immediately recognize Lord Raleigh in the disreputable gentleman who stared at them with hard eyes.

“What the devil!” He made a small sound of impatience, then went on rudely, “I thought you'd all be gone by now.”

The woman in his arms was more polite. “How do you do?” she said. “I am Miss Brans-Hill and it's not what you think. I was attacked in my own home, and if Jack had not been there to rescue me, I don't know how things would have turned out.”

This little speech evoked a few titters and one guffaw from a gentleman whom Jack silenced with a look.

Ellie?
Thought the dowager.
Of course. It has to be Ellie.

As though they were spectators at a play, all followed Jack with their eyes as he carried Miss Brans-Hill to the stairs and began to climb them.

General Baird edged closer to the dowager and whispered in her ear, “All a misunderstanding, eh, Nell? So what do you say now?”

The dowager's lips curved in a complacent smile. “What I say,” she said, “is that all young, eligible clergymen can go to the devil.”

Ellie was hoping it would turn out to be a bad dream, but when she opened her eyes and saw the strange room, she knew it was all true. Not only had she embarrassed herself horribly by practically forcing herself on Jack, but she'd also embarrassed his grandmother in front of all her guests.

How on earth could she live this down?

She couldn't. All she could do was follow Mama's advice. Put it out of her mind. Pretend it had never happened. But Mama was referring to social gaffes—when a lady tipped over her glass or used the wrong spoon at a formal dinner. She'd never anticipated a situation like this.

The
clink
of a glass had her hauling herself up. Her stomach swam, her head churned. A kindly-looking maid with a big white apron covering her ample frame was smiling down at her.

“Good morning, miss,” she said. “Her ladyship said I should persuade you to drink this before you get up.”

Ellie automatically took the glass the maid offered and put it to her lips. The potion was milky and tasted like chalk. She knew what it was. Her mother used to make it up for the blacksmith's wife to give to her husband when he'd drunk himself stupid every Saturday night.

“It was Mama's cordial,” she told the smiling maid. “I think I must have made a mistake with the recipe.” She tried to hand the glass back.

The maid nodded but refused to take the glass. “Drink all of it,” she said, her sympathetic smile at odds with her words.

Ellie accepted her fate meekly, knowing that this was only the beginning of her penance.

When the maid pulled back the drapes, Ellie blinked rapidly. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the sun's rays. The clock on the mantel told her that she'd slept half the day away.

“Time to get up,” said the maid cheerfully. “There's a bath waiting for you in the dressing room.”

No one had ever waited on Ellie before, not even when she lived with Cardvale. She'd had servants bring her tea or bring messages from her employers, but no one to fuss over her as though she were a fine lady. She wasn't sure that she enjoyed the experience, but she gave in without a murmur. She didn't want to cause any more trouble.

The servant's name, she learned, was Webster. Ellie had been around enough stately homes to know what that meant. When a servant's surname was used, he or she was high up in the hierarchy. Scullery maids, boot boys, and stableboys went by their Christian names. In her own home, Webster would have been addressed as
Miss
Webster as a mark of respect. Since this wasn't her home and she wanted to leave it without causing a ripple to mark her presence, she remained uncharacteristically mute. Mute and thoroughly miserable.

As she listlessly soaped herself, the maid gave her a running commentary on what had been happening while she slept. The master had reported the burglary to the authorities. They were to make enquiries, but were not hopeful of finding the culprit. Meantime, her boxes with all her clothes and toiletries had been brought round and she wasn't to worry about a thing.

Her boxes had been brought round? She didn't like the sound of that. She didn't want to accept anyone's charity, and she doubted that the dowager would welcome her with open arms, not after the spectacle she had made of herself last night.

She remembered Jack's grandmother quite well.
A character,
Papa had called her ladyship, but he'd said it with a smile. She'd been liberal with her purse and liberal in her views. But she might not be so liberal in her views when she realized she had taken a lady with a slightly tarnished reputation into her home.

“Her ladyship,” Ellie said. “Does she know that my boxes are here?”

“I don't rightly know.” Webster paused as she held out a warmed towel to wrap Ellie in. “She said nothing to me about boxes before she and Lady Caroline went out.”

“Her ladyship went out?” This sounded ominous.

Webster smiled. “To the linen drapers, to buy muslins and cambric for the gowns that a young lady requires for her first season. They should be home soon.”

“And Lord Raleigh? Did he go with them?”

“No. As soon as you're ready, you are to meet with him in the library.”

It didn't sound as though Lady Raleigh had taken umbrage or left in a temper. That was a good sign. On the other hand, she'd been left alone with Jack, without a chaperon. Did that mean her ladyship thought her reputation was beyond repair?

In her present frame of mind, nothing satisfied her.

When Ellie was dressed and had partaken of a little thin gruel to settle her stomach, the maid pulled the bellrope to summon a footman to take her to the library. As she waited, she took stock of her surroundings.

Not only was this a lovely room, done in yellow and gray, but it had a splendid vista over Hyde Park. There were two long windows, and she stood at one looking out.

Park Street was right below her window. This was, she knew, one of the most prestigious streets in Mayfair. There were no houses on the other side of the street to obscure her view of the park. The winter landscape of trees denuded of their leaves had its own stark beauty. But there was more than nature to admire. There were carriages of every description, pedestrians, riders—most of them fashionable people—who had come to see and be seen. This was the time of day she usually avoided when she walked in the park. She wanted to avoid meeting anyone she knew. She wanted to shield herself from pitying glances or the other sort.

When the footman arrived, she took a last look at her reflection in the cheval mirror. She was wearing her best wool gown, a green twill with buttons to the throat and long sleeves. Her fiery mane was tamed into a knot and pinned to the crown of her head. She was the picture of decorum. No one looking at her could possibly mistake her for the wild woman of last night, who had to be carried up the stairs.

As she followed in the footman's steps, she repeated her mother's litany.
Don't make a fuss. Put it out of your mind. Pretend it didn't happen.

He was standing by the window, looking out on the park. He turned at her entrance and motioned her to an armchair by the fire, then took the chair next to hers.

She found his scrutiny unsettling, and his closed expression daunting. The thought that he was deliberately trying to intimidate her stiffened her spine.

“Thank you, yes,” she said, “I slept very well. And you?”

A swift smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I'm not surprised you slept well. Tell me, Ellie, how much laudanum did you add to your mama's cordial?”

So much for Mama's litany. “Just a few drops. How did you know there was laudanum in it?”

“I found your cup of medicinal tea when I went to your rooms this morning. Don't you know that wine and laudanum don't mix?”

“I do now. I can't think why Mama set such store by that cordial. It's a recipe for disaster.” Not wishing to explain her unguarded remark, she went on quickly, “The maid tells me that there's little chance of catching the man who broke into my house.”

“That's what the authorities think.”

“And you? What do you think?”

He took a moment to stretch out his legs. “I'm not convinced,” he said quietly, “that the attack on you was a random burglary gone wrong.”

She spoke slowly, trying to make sense of his words. “Not random? Why do you think that?”

“A number of reasons.” His shoulders lifted slightly. “Tell me, Ellie,” he went on, “what would you expect to be missing after your house was robbed?”

“Well, everything of value would be in the walnut box I keep on top of the dresser—my mother's silver combs, an Egyptian cameo, a pearl ring with earrings to match. Oh yes, and Cardvale's leather purse with nine or ten guineas still left in it.”

“You forgot the silver bracelet with the scroll that says ‘Annie.'”

“My grandmother's bracelet.” She sat back in her chair. “You mean, you've recovered everything? That's wonderful.”

He shook his head. “Nothing was taken. The box was on your bed, with everything turned out on the bed pane.”

“Oh.” There were shades of meaning here that her aching head couldn't make sense of. “That doesn't say much for my few precious treasures, does it? What did he expect to find—the Cardvale diamonds?”

Something shifted in his eyes and she said quickly, “That was a joke! You know I couldn't possibly have taken them because I was with you!”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “I wasn't thinking of the diamonds. As you say, you were with me when they were taken. Could there be something else?”

“Like what?”

“Anything of value that I haven't mentioned?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that comes to mind.”

“Perhaps it's not valuable except to you. At any rate, we'll know more when we go to your rooms and you have a chance to take inventory.”

He was watching her with an expression that was oddly calculating. “What are you implying, Jack? What is it you're not saying?”

Again, that tiny, enigmatic shrug. “I thought perhaps that your brother might have given you something to keep for him.”

“Robbie?” Her head jerked up. “Are you accusing him of something? And anyway, how would a burglar know that my brother had given me something?”

“You work it out.”

She said slowly, “It would have to be someone who knows Robbie and knows me, too. No. I can't believe it. It was a random burglary, nothing more.”

“Possibly, but I don't like so many things happening at once.” He braced his arms on his thighs and leaned toward her. “First Louise Daudet is murdered, then the Cardvale diamonds are stolen, and now this robbery that isn't a robbery. You see what connects these events? You and your brother. Nothing else, or nothing we know about.”

She swallowed a small constriction in her throat. “If you're trying to frighten me, Jack, you're succeeding.”

“I hope you mean that.”

“I meant afraid for Robbie.”

“Now,
that
I can believe. Perhaps now you'll see why I want him here where I can keep an eye on him. And the sooner I question him, the safer he'll be. Agreed?”

She nodded automatically, not sure what exactly she was agreeing to.

“Splendid.” He got up. “And now for something to settle your stomach and chase the fog from your brain.”

He went to the sideboard and returned with two pewter tankards. “What is it?” she asked doubtfully, as she accepted one of the tankards.

“Jack's cordial.” He grinned hugely. “The antidote to Mama's cordial.”

Her thoughts were too chaotic to argue with him. She took a sip and wrinkled her nose. “It's bitter.” She took another sip, then said, “I know what it is. It's ale!”

He was still grinning. “And you'll feel much better after you drink it. Ellie, among gentlemen, it's a well-known remedy for the morning after a night of dissipation. Drink it.”

She didn't want to talk about nights of dissipation, so she covered her embarrassment by following his example. When she set the empty tankard down, she screwed up her face as though she'd swallowed a lemon.

“Satisfied?” she asked.