To Lure a Proper Lady (19 page)

“But…” Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth.

To the devil with it. He'd braced himself for a show of pique, but that guileless expression might well be his undoing.

“But what?” He pulled his shirt over his head.

“Is that all?”

Bloody, bloody hell. She'd just experienced one of the most powerful climaxes he'd ever witnessed, and she expected more. “It's all I'm prepared to do.”

“But there's more to the act, isn't there?” She pushed herself off the table. Her skirts swished about her ankles, her bodice still hanging about her waist. “Caro may have witnessed a horse breeding and mentioned something. I rather expected…Well…”

He held up a hand. “Pray, do not explain. Yes, there is more, but I am not willing to take that risk with you.”

Despite his forbidding tone, she approached. “It just doesn't seem altogether fair that I experienced all the pleasure.”

“Do you think I did not derive any enjoyment from that?” he asked tightly.

“I suppose you must have, but it wasn't quite the same level, I don't imagine.” To his horror, she reached for the falls of his breeches. His cock surged at the prospect of her touch, however innocent and unschooled.

Innocent. You'd best keep that in mind and leave her that way.

He stepped beyond her reach. “Do not push me.”

“I only wished—”

A sound from the corridor cut her off. Dysart froze. Footsteps thudded across the floor, growing louder. What the devil? It had to be past two in the morning. The household ought to be asleep. Unless one of the guests was returning from an assignation.

He placed a warning finger against her lips before padding over to press his ear to the door. The soft thuds came to a halt on the other side of the wooden panel.

Shite.

Praying the element of surprise worked in his favor—praying Elizabeth had time to arrange her bodice, before anyone spotted her—Dysart whipped open the door. A shadowed figure, tall and thin, lurked on the other side.

Closing the door behind him, Dysart leapt to the offensive. “Who are you and what are you doing skulking about this time of night?”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” replied a familiar voice—one Dysart hadn't heard in years. “I thought it was here, but I must have got the rooms mixed up. You see, I was to meet Pendleton.”

“Wot'choo want with Pendleton?” The moment he recognized the newcomer, Dysart assumed his Bow Street guise, a shabby character, one who wrapped his hands in rags to fend off the winter chill and who smoked cheroots while leaning against the wall of the magistrate court.

If it had been anyone but Riggs, Dysart might have taken a different tack. He might even have pretended Pendleton had sent a replacement. But Riggs was too canny to be taken in by such ploys. Riggs himself had shown Dysart how to talk his way out of any situation.

“Dysart? Is that you? Last place I expected to see you was in some nob's manor.”

Good thing Riggs didn't know what Dysart had just been doing with the nob's daughter, although Riggs would no doubt give him a slap on the back by way of congratulations. Not that Dysart was going to let his former colleague in on the secret.

“I might be keeping an eye on Pendleton.” Just so the bastard wasn't waiting around the corner, overhearing everything they said. As a precaution, Dysart lowered his voice. “So why don't ye tell me what business ye have with him.”

“Afraid I can't do that. I'm working on my own account now. Pendleton's a client.”

Dysart might have guessed as much. A few years after he'd joined the Bow Street force, Riggs had left for parts unknown. “He pay ye well?”

Riggs's lips stretched into something resembling a smile. “Well enough. Chaps like Pendleton have more blunt to toss about than the magistrate's court, so long as you demand payment in advance.”

Dysart grunted in acknowledgment. He'd learned that lesson the hard way early on in his career. “S'pose he must if he needs ye to clean up his messes for him.”

“What gives you that idea?”

Dysart resisted the urge to spit. He might have done it on a London street, but in Sherrington Manor, he must be mindful of making extra work for the servants. “Ye might say I've reason to. Ye might also say I'm here on official business. Ye know how it is, bein' a Runner once yerself.”

Riggs narrowed his eyes. “If you're here on a case, you might be best to leave Pendleton alone and ask questions elsewhere.”

“Wot'choo mean by that?”

“Ask Pendleton what he's doing here.”

“He's attendin' a house party like the rest of them.”

“No. Ask him what he's really doing here.”

If only Dysart could count on a truthful reply to that question. If only he hadn't burned his bridges where Pendleton was concerned. “Can't do that. He won't tell me nothin' useful. Bad blood and all.”

“Between you and some nob?”

“Remember Sally's son?” Until Elizabeth, Dysart hadn't told his story to another soul, and he wasn't about to launch into it now. At least not the full tale. Sally may have passed from this world, but he refused to sully her memory by discussing the sordid details with Riggs. “Pendleton's get, and he saw to it she was sacked without references. But ye might do me a favor and tell me what ye know, as between old friends, see?”

Notes. Story. Story, story. Notes.

Whatever Dysart was doing out in the corridor, it was taking a while. The low hum of muffled voices penetrated the heavy wooden door. Clearly they were discussing…something. The oak was too thick for Lizzie to pick out exact words. So she'd busied herself with sifting through their scattered pages, classifying them.

Notes. Story. Kittens. Ugh.

The fantasy version of Dysart—the one she'd written into her novel—arose in her mind, emerging from the pond, a mewling ball of bedraggled fluff in hand. The water had plastered his shirt to a finely honed body, his skin glowing golden beneath all-but-transparent linen.

But she'd become intimately connected with the real man now, a man who, for all his flaws, was even better than her imaginings. Solid and steadfast, every bit as protective. And he'd protected her just now from herself. From her desires.

Another image flooded her brain, this one true memory, of Dysart holding her gaze, his eyes burning, while his fingers worked their magic on her. Once again, that low, aching pulse deep in her body started its relentless rhythm.

Good Lord, she'd all but begged him to take her. Thank the heavens he'd kept his head; given a repeat of their last encounter, Lizzie wasn't sure she'd keep hers a second time.

She eyed her rumpled manuscript. Wrong, all wrong, and not just because she'd misused a word or two to embarrassing effect. None of this drivel reflected a real person with all the depth and facets of Dysart. The candle still guttered on the table; it would take the rest of the night to burn her pages one by one, but she could heap them on the cold hearth and use that small flame to set the entire lot ablaze.

She gathered the sheets of paper into a bundle, took the candle in her other hand, and strode toward the fireplace. She was hunched before the grate, trying to coax the first page to light when the door burst open.

“Wot'choo doing?”

She nearly jumped, but then she recalled Dysart's Bow Street personality. She'd almost forgotten it, the way he'd so seamlessly taken on his role of someone from her social circle.
Because that's who he really is.

“This isn't anything important. Your notes are over on the table.” She pointed to the neat pile she'd made of his pages.

“Is that your story?” In no time he'd transformed back into the gentleman. “Don't do that.”

She turned to face him. He certainly didn't look like a gentleman the way his shirttails hung loose outside his breeches. With a few wayward locks of hair curling on his forehead, he appeared every inch the rogue. “I've come to the conclusion it's rubbish. I believe I told you that.”

One hand outstretched, he strode toward her. “You can still fix it. Start over if you have to.”

Why did he care so much? Had he managed to pick up on her hope that she'd finally discovered something she was good at? “I don't think this is salvageable, nor am I suited to being a writer.”

“Did you derive pleasure from telling your story?”

Thank goodness for the darkness that hid her blush. He had no idea, not that she'd ever admit as much. “I suppose so, yes.” There, that sounded neutral enough.

“Then it isn't rubbish.” He crouched next to her, his arm brushing her shoulder as he retrieved the pages from their pyre. “Even if you don't feel it's worth showing to others, you can keep working on it. You might think of it as your own secret pleasure.”

Good Lord, he was referring to her scribblings, yet he made them sound so decadent—like he wasn't talking about anything innocent at all. He could seduce her so easily if he set his mind to it.

Prudence dictated she change the subject, especially with him hovering so close she could feel the warmth emanating from his skin. “Who was out in the corridor? More to the point, are they gone?”

“Someone Pendleton hired.”

“Pendleton? I take it to mean you're not referring to his valet.”

“No, he's hired his own form of investigator. It just so happens the man he hired used to be a Runner.”

“What on earth has Pendleton got to investigate, especially with regard to us?”

“Not what. Who.”

An icy chill passed through her. “Not Snowley.”

A line formed between Dysart's brows, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “No, but perhaps you'll be relieved to learn as much.”

She preferred to ignore that small jab in favor of a more terrifying thought. “Surely not Caro.”

“Not Caro, but your aim is truer there. This has to do with Pendleton's interest in her horse.” He pushed himself upright, set Lizzie's manuscript aside, and pulled his notes toward him. Pages flipped, one after the next, until he found what he was looking for. “Lucas Barrows.”

Dysart passed a sheet to Lizzie. Her glance skipped along the list of the household staff from Caruthers down to the hall boy, Dysart's scrawl interspersed with her lines of neat handwriting. Only Barrows's name stood with a question mark beside it. “What does Papa's estate agent have to do with this?”

“According to Riggs, Pendleton's had his eye on your sister's hunting mare for quite some time.”

“He wouldn't be alone there, but Caro refuses to sell Boudicca at any price.”

“That's not what Barrows told Pendleton. In fact, Barrows claimed your father was selling the mare.”

“That is ridiculous.” Lizzie stood to face Dysart. “Papa would never agree to sell Caro's mare.”

“Clearly Pendleton didn't know that. He forked over a healthy sum, expecting to gain a prize hunter. Instead he received some nag. Naturally, he noticed the discrepancy. He attended your party in hope of receiving an explanation. But now Barrows seems to have disappeared.”

Another chill crept along Lizzie's spine, this one worse than the previous. “Convenient.”

“Yes, it is. Riggs thinks Barrows has taken Pendleton's blunt and gone to London. If I leave as soon as it's light, I can catch him.”

“No, you don't understand. It's worse than that.” Much, much worse, for an important realization had just struck. “Do you recall the crisis I had in the kitchens the first day of the party?”

Dysart shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. “No?”

“Well, I had one. The cook told me the local merchants were no longer extending us credit, so I had a look at the household accounts.”

He went very still. “And?”

“I found nothing wrong. I questioned Barrows about the books, and he could tell me nothing. Now I have to wonder if he's been skimming money from the estate and doctoring the books.”

Dysart emitted a string of curses, blue and lurid. “If he's got that kind of blunt set aside, he could be anywhere. If we're to catch him, I need to get back to London today and put the rest of the boys on this case.”

“Would they do that over a matter of embezzlement?”

“They would if I ask them to. They would over attempted murder.”

At Dysart's pronouncement, Elizabeth gasped. “Murder? I don't understand. Barrows has overseen Papa's affairs for years.”

Like the chips in a kaleidoscope suddenly falling to produce a recognizable pattern, the pieces had come together. Agents skimming funds from their employers' estates was a common enough scenario. Dysart should have considered that angle. How had he missed such an obvious avenue of investigation?

You didn't realize the estate was suffering financially.
Faced with opulence surrounding him he'd had no reason to question that aspect. But he should have pursued Barrows more closely. He would have if he hadn't allowed emotion to cloud his judgment. He'd let his old grudge against Pendleton hinder him, but if he was completely honest, he'd allowed Snowley to blind him, as well.

Because his own damnable attraction to Elizabeth was fast turning into ties of affection. Ties he should neither entertain nor act on, lest they bind him permanently. God, what a near-miss that last interlude had been. Had he given in to his desire…No, best not focus on that.

Not when he finally had an obvious lead.

He cleared his throat. Elizabeth was expecting a reply. “And how many of those years has he spent lining his pockets? Perhaps not all of them, but as your papa's health declined, he could have begun to take advantage. By all appearances, he's grown bolder. And if he came up with a scheme to ensure your papa remained bedridden so he'd be less inclined to go over the books?”

“But the books show no shortfalls.”

“Doctored, as you've pointed out yourself. Barrows would need to have a clean record to show your papa in case he asked for an accounting.”

Her chin edged up a notch; his gut told him the movement boded no good. At all. “I'm coming with you to London.”

“No, you're not.”

“Someone needs to confront Barrows.”

Damn it, his quiet, firm authority had never failed him in the past—but then, the daughters of dukes were not accustomed to prohibitions. “That's my job.”

“Someone from the family must be present. Someone who can question him properly on the state of the books.”

“You are not coming with me, and that's final.” He could have made excuses concerning her reputation. He could have pointed out that her guests would gossip about her utter lack of manners in leaving her own party. He doubted either line of reasoning would sway her.

“You need me there.” Not that a flat refusal had worked any better.

He pushed back the flood of erotic images her statement conjured. “I need you here, where I know you're safe. The parts of London cases like this take me to are hardly Mayfair.”

Shite, the mere thought of someone like Elizabeth in the rookeries of St. Giles, even from the relative safety of a carriage, turned his blood to ice. And if Barrows wanted to lose himself, the warrens of the less fortunate were an ideal location. That was, as long as he hadn't lined his pockets so well he'd managed to quit the country on a moment's notice.

She leveled him with a look. “How were you planning on leaving, when you used my conveyance to travel here?”

He held in a string of curses even worse than the one he'd spouted earlier. Barely. Once again, he hadn't thought, but he preferred to imagine the itch to follow a clear lead had clouded his judgment this time. Not Elizabeth. Not what had nearly occurred an hour ago in this very room. And most definitely not the way she tugged at him in places that had nothing to do with his cock.

He needed to get away from her before his deep-seated need to protect her took him over once more, the same way it had with Sally. Thankfully, he could see this job through, leave her in security, and place some distance between them all at the same time.

As long as he found a means of convincing her to stay—or resorting to underhanded methods. Damn, blast, and shite. Guilt gnawed him at the very idea of what he needed to do, but it was for the best.