Too Tempting to Resist (19 page)

“If you mean to pursue this, I’ll see what I can find out about Brighton,” replied Cameron. “But unfortunately, it will have to wait for a few days. I have a previous engagement that cannot be put off.”

“Be assured, I’m not afraid of getting my paws dirty,” said Gryff. “You are not the only one who can dig around for information. I have some sources I can turn to.”

“The sort of things you wish to learn will not be common knowledge at any of your clubs.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, Cam, but not all of my time is frittered away in gaming hells or boudoirs. My range of contacts may not be as extensive as yours, but a few of my acquaintances have less than lily-white hands,” replied Gryff.

“I was not questioning your mettle, merely the means for deciding how to use it.”

“I have an idea where to start looking. If that cur Brighton is threatening Lady Brentford, I’ll pull out his claws, one by one.”

“I don’t doubt you would emerge victorious in a dogfight.” Cameron hesitated just a fraction before adding, “Just keep in mind that you may be barking up the wrong tree.”

“Thank you for the warning. But I’m a little like a mastiff—once I have a bone between my teeth, I am loath to let go.”

“Well, try not to choke on it.”

Gryff gave a reluctant laugh. “You can make me eat my words if I end up looking like a gudgeon. But I don’t think I will.”

Cameron regarded him thoughtfully, a well-tended forefinger stroking absently at the dangling earring in his left lobe. This one was a dark Persian turquoise, set in gold. “Don’t try to snout around the flash houses by yourself. You’ll learn nothing without me, and may scare off any potential informers. Wait, and we’ll make a trip together when I return.”

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask where you are going.”

“Never mind,” responded his friend. “Though I do plan to stop for a brief visit to Connor and his new bride.” After a last little swirl of the amber-colored liquid, he set the glass down. “Lady K will no doubt find it vastly amusing that another Hellhound has been tamed by an unexpected female visitor to The Wolf’s Lair.”

“I wouldn’t look quite so smug,” warned Gryff. “The time may come when you meet your match.”

Cameron dismissed the jibe with a sardonic laugh. “I think I can safely say that the odds of that happening are virtually nil.”

“Stranger things have happened.”
Like Connor becoming a goat farmer and me
writing essays on landscape design.

“Not many,” drawled his friend. “I’d better be off. I need to be at Execution Dock at midnight.”

“Watch your neck,” counseled Gryff. “One of these days…”

“Watch your back,” riposted Cam. “You did promise Connor you would stay out of trouble.”

“The Lair is in capable hands. Assure the Wolfhound that there’s no need to worry about the place. Sara doesn’t need me to offer any guidance. She runs the place even more efficiently than he did.”

“I think I’ll let you pass on that message.” A cocky salute and then Cameron was gone, leaving only a momentary glimmer of blue and gold lingering in the shadows.

“Trouble,” muttered Gryff. “As if
I
am the only one of this flea-bitten trio to ever get himself into a scrape.”

A
flicker of lamplight shone though the window, its glow a beacon, guiding her to safe harbor in a storm.

Twisting her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Eliza hurried through the garden gate and knocked on the kitchen door. Through the glass panes, she saw Augustina put aside her sewing and rise from the table.

“It’s me, Gussie,” she called softly, and heard the bolt slide back. The sound seemed to release all her pent-up emotions, for at the first crack of light, she practically threw herself into the warm, sweet-scented air.

“Eliza!”

“I’m sorry for showing up at such an ungodly hour. I was planning to wait until tomorrow, b-b-but…” To her dismay, her lips were quivering too badly to go on.

Frail arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. “My dear, you know that you are welcome here at any hour.”

Eliza sniffled, feeling all of eight years old again. “I—I didn’t know where else to go, and I—I couldn’t bear to be alone. So I saddled Boadicia and rode here to you.”

“I should hope so! Now, sit down and let me fix you some tea and a plate of walnut shortbread,” ordered Augustina in her best don’t-you-dare-disobey voice. “Then you can tell me all about it.”

The familiar clatter helped calm her jangled nerves. Placing her hands face down on the waxed wood, Eliza let the steam and the scent of the cut lilacs in the earthenware jug by the stove envelop her in the sense of snug good cheer that pervaded the little cottage.

She had dreamed of having just such a setting, and now it seemed so impossibly out of reach. Tears welled up again.

“Drink this.” Augustina added a splash from a small silver flask into the cup of tea. “It’s for medicinal emergencies, and this appears to qualify.”

“Arrggh.” Eliza nearly gagged on the potent brew. “What is it?”

“The Scots call it
uisge-beatha
—or water of life. It helps cure any number of ills.”

“If it doesn’t kill you first.”

“A dollop of honey will soften its punch.” Augustina put a plate heaped with shortbread down beside the teacup. “Once you have fortified yourself with whisky and walnuts, we’ll talk.”

Walnuts.
Eliza’s lips began to quiver at the memory of Haddan’s earthy kisses.

“Oh, dear. This must be serious indeed, if the mention of walnuts is bringing that look to your face.”

Blinking back tears, she gulped down another swallow of the whisky-laced tea. “Oh, Gussie, after all your wise teachings, how is it that I’ve been such a bloody fool of late?”

Augustina reached over to squeeze her hand. “Come, dry your eyes and tell me what’s happened. I promise you, it won’t seem half so bad when you share it with me.”

Sniffs yielded to a watery smile. “Or it might seem twice as horrible when said aloud.”

“Go ahead and spit it out,” said her friend.

Eliza sucked in a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. “Haddan hates me!” she blurted out, letting her fears tumble out helter-pelter. “And now he thinks I’m a criminal as well as a strumpet. His friend must have found out…and…and it gets even worse.”

“Worse?” murmured Augustina.

“Yes, much worse! I-it turns out that he’s the author of those beautiful essays.”

“Hmmph.” A pensive pause. “So he’s not only handsome as sin, but smart as the devil?” said her friend with a wry smile. “I should think that would be cause for dancing on the table, not crying into your teacup.”

Sniff.
“He hates me!”
Sniff.
“I saw it in his eyes. That’s because of Brighton and his dastardly plan of art forgeries—oh, and the baronet wants me to marry him.”

It was Augustina’s turn to blink. Pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she passed it over. “Blow your nose, my dear, and then let us start at the beginning and go through this a little more slowly.”

Eliza explained about Harry’s summons to London and the baronet’s two-pronged proposal.

“The dastard,” growled her friend. Her fingers curled around the butter knife. “As for Harry, his cods should be cut off. A brother should be protecting his sister from predators, not throwing her to the wolves.”

“Yes, well, we both know I can’t look to Harry for any help.” Letting her shoulders slump, Eliza leaned forward and pressed her palms to her brow. “I feel as if I’m trapped between a rock wall and a slab of stone,” she said in a small voice. “There seems no escape, Gussie. Any way I turn, I see only disaster looming.”

A swirl of wind rattled the casement, and rain began to patter against the panes. “It’s so confusing. Do I let Harry go to debtor’s prison? Do I let Leete Abbey and all the people who depend on me sink into ruin? Do I accept Brighton’s odious offer and hope that he doesn’t crush me like a bug?” In the quiet of the kitchen, the drops sounded like bullets ricocheting off the glass. “I can’t even decide which is the lesser of all the evils.”

“We’ll find a way out of this crevasse,” said Augustina stoutly, but her face betrayed a shade of worry. “But before we turn to that, tell me how Haddan fits into all this.”

Eliza explained about the meeting in Grosvenor Square, and how the marquess had come to Leete Abbey earlier that afternoon.

Her friend caught the faint flash of color as she lowered her hands from her face. “What’s that on your palm?”

“A dragon,” she admitted.

“Ah. I take it that songbirds were not the only winged creatures fluttering in the sunshine of your garden.”

Her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. “I seem to throw all common sense to the wind when I am around him.”

“I can’t say that I blame you, my dear,” quipped Augustina. “He is a
very
attractive man.”

“Yes, and I couldn’t resist temptation,” said Eliza with a hollow laugh. “So now I find myself cast out of my little Garden of Eden—in a manner of speaking. It was actually Haddan who left in a rush, and on thinking back over his curt comment on painting, I fear it’s because he learned of my sin.”

“It’s Brighton who has sinned, my dear, not you,” objected Augustina.

“But in Haddan’s eyes, I’m painted with the same tainted brush as the baronet,” she pointed out. “And that is how everyone will see it.”

To which her friend had no reply.

“It’s awfully ironic that I should discover we have more in common than physical lust,” went on Eliza, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Haddan and I share an appreciation of nature.” She bit her lip. “But that doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“You don’t know that,” insisted Augustina. “From what you described, Haddan’s bad news could have been unrelated to you. ‘Enjoy your painting’ could have meant…enjoy your painting.”

“Oh, I know it was me,” said Eliza, recalling the shadows that darkened the green-gold gaze. “And ‘enjoy your painting’ had a darker meaning. I saw it in his eyes. Whatever he learned, it was very personal.” She stared at her hands, unable to keep from thinking what they had been doing earlier that day. “Now that I know he is the author of the essays, I would guess he feels he’s been tricked into buying tainted goods.”

“Well then, we simply have to show him he’s wrong.”

“I don’t know how.” Eliza heard the hollow echo of defeat in her tone. It wasn’t like her to surrender without a fight, but at the moment, she just wanted to crawl under the table. “Oh, Gussie, I’m feeling a little desperate. It seems to me that the only way to get out of this chasm is to do something drastic.”
Something dangerous.

“There is no need to panic yet,” counseled Augustina. “We will think of something.”

She didn’t argue, but the reality of it was that things looked very grim. The ride over had provided plenty of time to ponder every possibility. At first, the idea of simply packing up and heading north to lose herself in the Lake District seemed a viable solution. But without Haddan’s commission, she didn’t have the funds to purchase a cottage. Worse, if scandal darkened her name with Watkins and the other London publishers—an all too likely possibility—she would have no future way of earning a living.

Destitute.
She would be destitute, penniless and disgraced. Gussie would offer shelter, but the idea of being a burden on her friend’s limited finances was…unbearable.

Looking up, Eliza found Augustina watching her with a troubled look. “Perhaps I will have to consider Brighton’s proposal,” she said slowly. “How bad can it be?”

Her friend reached for the whisky and took a small sip straight from the flask. “How can you ask that? You’ve already endured a forced marriage to a man you did not love or respect.”

“Yes,” said Eliza. “And I survived.”

“Hmmph! Marry that miscreant? Over my dead body!”

Eliza smiled in spite of her worries. “Oh, Gussie, what a fierce dragon you are! I am very grateful that you are willing to fly to my defense, snorting smoke and breathing fire. However, I refuse to let you risk being singed by my family’s scandal.”

“If anyone is going to get burned, it is Brighton,” said her friend resolutely. “So let us put our heads together.”

“Lord Haddan!” Watkins looked up in surprise from his morning tea. “Er, if you have come to inquire about whether Linden has sent any finished artwork, the answer is not yet. I only passed on the first set of final essays a few days ago.”

“No, I didn’t come to ask about Lady Brentford’s progress on the paintings.” Gryff took a seat facing the publisher’s desk and waited for him to finishing mopping the splash of tea from his blotter. “I have some other queries, if you don’t mind.”

The publisher’s face had turned a touch ashen. “Milord, please understand that I—”

Gryff silenced him with a curt wave. “Nor did I come here to rake you over the coals about keeping her identity a secret. I can hardly complain about your integrity in honoring a confidence.”

Watkins blew on his burned fingers, looking visibly relieved. “How did you come to discover her secret?”

“Never mind,” Gryff answered, more curtly than he intended. Tapping his fingertips together, he looked around, trying to decide how to begin. He had come here intending to probe more into Eliza’s character. But what had seemed like a good idea in the sleepless hours just before dawn now took on a different light.

Outright questions on whether she was capable of committing a forgery would cast a pall of suspicion over her, whether she was guilty or not. To blacken her name would be not only unfair, but also ungentlemanly.

Damnation, Cameron was right
—he hadn’t a clue as to how to conduct a discreet investigation.

“I trust that there is no problem with the sex of the artist?” asked Watkins hesitantly.

Sex.
Gryff snapped to attention.

“That is, the fact that Linden is a female,” amended the publisher.

“I—I haven’t decided,” he muttered, aware that he was making a hash of this. He stood up, and put on his hat. “Thank you for your time.”

“Milord…”

Gryff paused, his hand on the latch.

“I hope very much you will give the matter careful consideration, and not hold it against her that she isn’t a man.” Watkins spoke very slowly, choosing his words with care. “It is not my place to speak of her personal life, but it is my impression that she is caught in a very difficult family situation. Not that she breathes a word of complaint. In spite of that, she is unfailingly reliable.” A cough. “I hold her in the highest regard.”

“Thank you, Mr. Watkins,” muttered Gryff. The statement stirred a fresh wave of guilt for believing the worst of her without asking for an explanation. Without further word, he left the shop and turned west heading for Bond Street, determined to do better at his next stop.

Footsteps crunched along the narrow pathway leading around the cottage.

“Ah, thought I might find you here, ’Liza.” Harry swatted a vine of climbing roses out of his way and walked unsteadily into Augustina’s back garden. His face was flushed and the cocked brim of his stylish beaver hat showed a forehead sheened in sweat.

“You’re foxed,” said Eliza flatly, and went back to watering the potted herbs.

“’M not,” he protested. “An’ even if I was, it’s no business of y’rs.”

It was a good thing Gussie was in the shed. Otherwise, her brother would have blistered ears to go with a bilious stomach.

She, too, felt like breathing fire and brimstone, but instead, she simply asked, “What do you want?”

Harry stretched his mouth in a sickly imitation of a smile. “I need t’ have a word with you. In private.”

“We
are
in private, Harry. Gussie went to fetch her pruning shears and watering can, so you can speak freely.” Not that he would make any coherent sense.

“The thing is, I need y’ t’ come back to London with me. Today.”

“I can’t,” she snapped. “Unlike you, I don’t have quarters at a fashionable hotel, or a fancy curricle at my beck and call.”

“You always stay with Margaret, and she’s happy t’ have you anytime,” he whined. “Especially now, with her husband on a diplomatic mission t’ St. Petersburg.”

“Yes, I’m fortunate to have such a generous childhood friend. But of late I’ve been abusing the privilege. I can’t just keep showing up on her doorstep and imposing on her generosity whenever I choose.”

Harry’s expression turned mulish. “But this is important.”

“It always is.” Breaking off a few spiky leaves of rosemary, she crumbled them between her fingers and inhaled the soothing fragrance. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

The concession suited her own plans. It had taken a long discussion late into the night—along with a few fibs—to convince her friend that there was no need to spring into action quite yet.

Dear, determined Augustina.
The elderly spinster had been all for picking up a poker and banging her way into Brighton’s townhouse, demanding the return of the copied painting. She had reluctantly agreed to give Eliza a few days to make some inquiries in London…​supposedly with Watkins, about the possibility of other art commissions.

But the real reason was to…

“What’s keeping you, Leete?”

Eliza felt her insides clench. She now knew why her brother was so nervous. Turning, she saw Brighton’s odious cousin, Mr. Pearce, saunter past the trellis.