Читать книгу Deception in Regency Society - Christine Merrill - Страница 16

The evening found her shivering inside her cloak, waiting for Mr Smythe to enter his study. Constance had discovered the reason, firsthand, why the practice of dampened petticoats had never caught on. She had thought it was the extreme immodesty that prevented popularity. But now that she had tried it, she suspected it had as much to do with the discomfort involved. The fabric was cold and wet against her body, and she thought she was as likely to catch her death as catch a man because of it.

But the image presented when she saw herself in the mirror might be most effective, if the object of the evening was seduction. The thin fabric of the skirt clung to her legs and outlined her hips and belly. Without the troublesome stays, her breasts rested soft and full in the bodice of her dress, and tightened in response to the chill of the skirts. The rouge on her cheeks and lips was subtle, but made her mouth look kissable in the candlelight. There was no trace left of the aloof duchess to obscure the vulnerable and desirable woman she saw there.

When she’d arrived at Smythe’s rooms, she’d almost lost her nerve, and had clung to the cloak as her last line of protection when the servant had offered to take it. It would be hard enough to shed, once the object of her mission was in sight, and she meant to keep it as long as she could.

At last, Smythe stepped into the room, and she turned to greet him.

He smiled politely. ‘Your Grace? To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’

She let the cloak slip from her shoulders and drop to the floor around her.

There was a long pause, as he took in her appearance. And then, he said, ‘Oh.’ And his face went blank.

She waited, but no response was forthcoming. He stood, rooted to the spot, silent and staring at her as though he did not quite understand what he was seeing.

Dear God, what had she done? She had assumed that she recognised his interest. And he had kissed her. Twice. But perhaps he was thus with all women when he was alone with them.

It had been the servant who had given her the direction to this place, not Mr Smythe. She had not thought, before coming here, to question whether he wished to entertain her in his home. He had certainly never invited her to it. After the afternoon in the library, he might not wish to see her at all, much less see her nearly naked in his study.

He might have other plans for the evening. He might not be alone. Worse yet, he might be married, although there was nothing about the rooms to indicate the fact. And she had blundered forward, dressed like a courtesan and expecting a warm greeting.

She stared down at the cloak on the floor, willing it to jump back into place around her shoulders, and then she looked back at Mr Smythe.

He was still staring at her, taking in every detail. He forgot himself and sat down. And then sprang from his chair, and motioned to her. ‘Please, sit. May I offer you a drink? Tea?’

She sank gratefully on to a nearby settee. ‘Sherry?’

‘Of course.’ She noted the speed with which he summoned a servant, and the eagerness of his voice. He did not let his man come fully into the room, blocking the entrance with his body and taking the tray from him at the door. Then he returned to her, busying himself with the pouring of wine as though he did not know what to do with his hands.

Did this mean he was still interested in her? Or had she embarrassed him in some way? Until he spoke, it was difficult to tell. But whatever he felt, it wasn’t anger, for he showed no sign of turning her out, and he’d have done it by now, surely.

He offered her a glass, but still said nothing. She took her sherry and sipped, crossing her legs, and watching as he watched the movement of her skirt and swallowed some of his own wine.

At last she could stand the silence no longer. All the witty conversational gambits she’d imagined had involved two people who were capable of speech. There would be no clever sparring around the truth, or coy avoidance if she could not get Tony to respond beyond a monosyllable. Finally she gave up and went directly to the reason for her visit, without preamble. ‘I need your help.’

‘Anything,’ he breathed. And then he remembered to look into her eyes. He cleared his throat, and his face went blank again, as he pretended that he had not just been trying to stare through her clothes. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its normal tone. ‘How may I assist you? I am at your service.’

Very well. He wished to pretend that there was nothing unusual about her appearance? Then so would she. She stared unflinchingly into his eyes. ‘I need something taken. Stolen, from another person.’ Her nerve began to falter. ‘It was mine to begin with, so in a sense, it is not stealing at all.’

His voice hardened, as he responded. ‘Do not justify. I trust that you would never ask this of me if the reason were not a good one. You need something taken? Then I am your man. Direct me to it.’

‘Jack Barton has the deed to my house. My house, mind you. Not my husband’s or my nephew’s. It was promised to me.’ She heard the whine in her voice, and took a deep breath. ‘I assume you can guess the reason why he might wish to keep it. It is very economical on his part to allow me to remain in my own house, in exchange for my hospitality when he visits me there. He needn’t even let some rooms.’

She was pleased to see the murderous look on the face of Mr Smythe as the situation sunk in.

‘And I would like to have it back. But I am not sure where he might be keeping it.’

‘That is all right,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I have a pretty good idea of its location. It was a rum trick to play on you, and I have no objection to settling the score. I’ll fix the bastard so that he’s ill inclined to try it again.’ He seemed almost relieved not to have to think about her, and his eyes lost focus as he began to plan the job. ‘The thing will take several days, but you must be patient and allow me to know what is best in this matter. I will bring the deed to you as soon as I have it safely away.’

‘I need it before Monday. That is when he means to…take occupancy.’

His attention snapped back to the present, and he was aware of her again. There was a long pause, and for a moment, she feared that he was about to retract his offer of help. Then he said, ‘Monday? This is not an easy thing you are asking. But I understand that your need is urgent. I will adjust my own plans so that I may help you. You will have it by Monday.’

‘Thank you.’

There was another long silence. She had expected that this was where he would explain to her the cost of the service, and she took another sip of the sherry, wetting her lips to agree, when he asked.

But he said nothing. He just continued to gaze at her, watching her lips as she drank the sherry, scanning slowly down to admire her breasts, making no effort to clarify her position. She could feel her skin grow warm under his gaze, and her nipples tightening.

At last she could no longer stand the silence. She stared down into her wine glass and said, ‘If you were to do this for me, I would be very grateful. Once it is done, of course. Once the item is returned to me, there is nothing that you would ask that I would refuse.’

‘Nothing,’ he said flatly.

‘Nothing,’ she affirmed.

‘Anything I might think to ask in payment, any request I might make, you would be willing to comply?’

She ignored the heat rising in her. ‘Yes.’

His voice dropped to a sensuous murmur, and she could feel the words dancing along her nerves. ‘Be warned, I have an extremely vivid imagination.’

Suddenly, so did she. She closed her eyes tight and the fantasies that rose at the sound of his voice became more intense. Her blood sizzled as she imagined what it might be like to submit to the whims of a man who was little more than a stranger—a hardened criminal, accustomed to taking what he wanted. ‘Anything you wish.’

‘But what will you say in the morning, I wonder?’ His voice had returned to normal again.

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she responded, a little too easily.

‘I should think it’s obvious. It was to me, at least. I am not good enough to be seen with, when you are in the presence of your friends. It is much safer here, is it not, where there is no one you know?’

The words stung her. ‘And how could I have introduced you to Endsted?’ she retorted. ‘This is Mr Smythe. We met in my bedroom, when he was stealing my jewellery. Really, Tony, you ask the impossible of me.’

‘Tony, is it, now? I had no idea, your Grace, that we had progressed to that level of familiarity. I suppose I should be flattered. When you meet me in the future, you may call me whatever you choose. You need not mention knowing me in my professional capacity at all. We have been introduced at a formal gathering, although you did not pay a great deal of attention at the time. You have danced with me. We have made polite conversation. I had hoped that you might be able to treat me as you treat others. And as I have treated you: with courtesy and respect.’

‘Courtesy and respect? That is beyond enough. You have taken liberties with my person.’

‘I apologise,’ he responded stiffly. ‘I rather thought, at the time, that you enjoyed them. And if I do not miss my guess, you just invited to do as I pleased with you. But if I was mistaken, and have been taking unwelcome liberties, then I humbly apologise. It will not happen again.’

Her anger faded, as she remembered how he’d looked in the library. She had hurt him with her snub. And now she had come to his rooms to hurt him again. She could feel the cool air passing through her gown, fighting back the heat in her skin. She was being utterly shameless, trying to trap Tony into helping her. And yet she was berating him for his behaviour. She looked down at the designs her toe was tracing in the rug. ‘I mis-spoke. You have not taken anything from me that was not freely offered. But Barton came to my rooms after we spoke this afternoon. And in my panic, I could not think where else to turn. I thought, after the kiss in the garden, you would not be averse to my offer tonight.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, your Grace, I’m not averse. Not in the slightest. Especially with you dressed like that.’ He stared at her body, making no effort to hide his interest. Finally, he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. ‘Say the word and I’ll have you on the hearthrug, right now, and make sure you don’t regret the offer. But understand, if I wished to be compensated for my services, I would request payment in full, up front of the job.’ He stared into her eyes and his smile faded. ‘With the risks I’m taking, I never withhold pleasure or payment for tomorrow. One can not guarantee the outcome. If they catch me and hang me, your gratitude is worthless.’

‘Very well, then.’ Here and now? He would not even lead her to his bed? She felt her knees turn to water and a tremor of excitement go through her at the thought of what was about to happen. She reached to undo her bodice, trying not to rush in her eagerness.

‘I did not request payment.’

Her hand stopped.

‘When did I ever demand anything of you?’ he asked softly. ‘I said I would do this for you, and I shall. I do not wish to—how did you put it?—“take liberties”. From you, I do not wish to take anything at all. I will take care of your problem.’ He waved his hand as though dealing with Barton were no more difficult than shooing a fly. ‘Tonight, all you needed to do was ask and I would have offered to do all in my power to aid you. And as a gentleman, I do not require your gratitude afterwards. Do not mention it again.’

‘Thank you.’ But she did not feel like thanking him. She felt like shouting at him. And the flush in her cheeks was from shame, not excitement.

There was another long pause. And his eyes remained focused on her face, studiously ignoring the rest of her. ‘Is there anything else you wished of me?’

There were many things, none of which she could very well ask for. To begin with, she wanted him to gaze at her as he had done, when she had entered the room, and not with the coldness and disdain he was showing now. ‘No, I think that is all.’

He nodded, and said nothing more. His expression did not change. The silence stretched between them.

‘I should probably be going, then.’

He nodded. ‘I think that’s best. Do you wish me to escort you home?’ And now he showed the same level of concern that any gentleman might show to a lady.

‘No. I am all right. It was not far to walk.’ She could not stand the embarrassment of his respect a moment longer.

‘You walked?’ His voice held disapproval. ‘It is not seemly or safe for a woman to travel alone at night. I will tell Patrick to get you a hackney.’

‘No.’ She had shocked him, by her behaviour, by coming alone to his home, and by her dress, or lack thereof. This was not how the night was to end at all.

‘I insist.’ His voice was emphatic, so she nodded and rose. He reached for her cloak and dropped it on to her shoulders, concealing her body from view before opening the door. She reached to pull it closed in front of her.

He escorted her to the door of his study and out into the hall. He directed his servant to find her transportation. Then he turned his back upon her and returned to his room.

The servant whom she had met the previous night led her down the stairs and left her standing at the front door, as he hailed a cab for her, and she sensed pity in his smile as he helped her into the coach.

Anthony returned to his chair and waited until the door closed behind her, and then waited a little longer. He imagined her progress through the house and out of the front door. Then he drained his wine in a gulp, and called for his valet.

The man appeared like a ghost behind him. ‘Sir?’

‘Patrick, bring me brandy. And plenty of it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick was resigned to his master’s behaviour, even if he did not approve of it. He left the room and reappeared a short time later, carrying a tray laden with a full bottle of the best brandy in the cellars.

Patrick poured the first glass, and when he seemed to be finished, his master signalled him with a raising of the hand. ‘Eh, eh, eh, a little more, still.’ Tony watched the level rise in the glass. He held up a hand. ‘Stop. That’s the ticket. And keep them coming, Patrick.’ He drank half the brandy and blurted, ‘That woman. I swear, Patrick, she will be the death of me. I cannot countenance what she did, just now.’ He finished the glass, and held it out to be refilled.

‘First she snubs me in public, and makes it known to me that she prefers another. Then she comes to me, soft and willing, just as I’ve always dreamed she would. She is finally here, and wants my help. And at any time, does she recognise me? No.’

‘It has been a long time, sir. Both you and she have changed significantly.’

‘One thing has not changed. She did not want me then, and she does not want me now. Did you see her? Dear God.’ He allowed himself a moment of carnal pleasure at the memory. ‘No stays, thin silk gown, and I swear she’d damped the skirts.’ He shook his head. ‘Like a French woman. Nothing left to imagination, not that my imagination needs any help when it comes to her. But she should not have been out in the streets in that condition. She’d catch her death. She made it quite clear, in the library today, that she wanted no part of me, and that our association was an embarrassment.

‘Very well. I do not need to be told twice. I meant to avoid her in the future. If she does not want me, then there is no point in making an even greater fool of myself than I have been.’ He stared down into his second brandy. He was already feeling the effects of the first, and thought the better of the second drink, tossing the contents of the glass into the fire, listening to the spirits hissing in the flames.

‘A few hours pass, and she comes to my room dressed to seduce me. Very well, thinks I. She has no trouble acknowledging me when we are alone. If I had any pride, I would refuse her. Which would prove I’m an even bigger fool than I thought, for how can I turn down an offer like this? She’s been married long enough to know what’s what and widowed long enough to miss it. She might ignore me tomorrow, but the morning is a long way off, and we’ll have a time of it tonight.’

He stared down into his empty glass, and Patrick shook his head and poured again.

‘And why did she come to me? She wants me to steal for her. Not a problem, of course. I’d die for her, if she but asked. Burglary is not a sticking point. And if I did, she would deign to lie with me. Afterwards. In gratitude.’ He closed his eyes and drank more slowly this time.

‘She looked at me with those sherry-coloured eyes, and hung her head as though the path to my bed was a passage to Botany Bay.’ He finished the brandy and said sadly, ‘It was not the way I’d imagined it.’

Patrick looked at him in disappointment. ‘What you have wanted for half your life was here, within your grasp. And you choose instead to send it away and call for a brandy bottle.’

‘It wasn’t what I wanted,’ he argued. ‘Her gratitude, indeed.’

‘What, exactly, do you want from her, then, if not to lie with her?’

‘I want her to see me for who I am, even if she cannot see me for who I was. All she sees is the thief, Patrick. And to catch him, she was willing to be the whore that a thief deserved.’ He thought back to the sight of her, her breasts swaying beneath her gown, her legs outlined by the cloth. ‘Not that I minded, seeing her. But I wager she does not dress thusly when she is trying to impress Endsted.’

‘Would you wish her to, sir?’

‘No. Of course not. If it were my choice, she would not see Endsted, again, under any circumstances. And I would make damn sure that he never got to see what I saw tonight. The man is an utter prig. I doubt he’d have known what to do with her, in any case.’

‘Unlike you, sir, Endsted would have sat there like a lecher, staring at her charms while making it clear that he disapproved of her behaviour. And then he would have insulted her by sending her away. She would have gone home, with head hung low and near tears, convinced that she was in some way morally repellent or deformed in body. I am sure she will think twice in the future before exposing to the gentleman in question any sign of interest or vulnerability that might lead to further ridicule.’

Tony ignored the dark look that Patrick was giving him, to drive the point home. ‘You’re saying I should go to her, then. Apologise.’

Patrick nodded. ‘Because there is nothing that will make amends better than appearing on her doorstep after half a bottle of brandy, and trying to say the things in your heart that you cannot manage to say when you are sober.’

‘Damn it, Patrick. Other men’s valets will at least lie to them when they have made fools of themselves.’

‘If it is any consolation, sir, Lord Endsted’s valet often has cause to lie to his master on that score. We have discussed it.’

Tony held up a hand. ‘Let us hear no more of Viscount Endsted. My night is quite grim enough, without thinking of him, or knowing that valets trade stories when they are gathered together. It chills the blood. Instead, tell me, Patrick, since you are so full of honesty, what am I to do to make amends with the Duchess of Wellford?’

‘Perhaps, sir, it would go a long way to restoring her good humour, if you did the thing that she wished you to do in the first place.’

‘You have returned early, your Grace.’ Susan was looking at her with curiosity, no doubt trying to spy some evidence of carnal activity. ‘Was the gentleman you wished to visit not at home?’

‘On the contrary, he was in, and willing to see me.’

‘That was quick.’ Susan’s face moued in disapproval. ‘But I suppose it’s the same with all men. The more time we takes on our appearance, the less time they needs. It don’t seem right, somehow.’

Constance started at the familiarity, then admitted the truth. ‘He sent me home. He took one good look at me, and he sent me away.’ She looked at her maid, hoping that Susan could provide some explanation.

‘He did not find you attractive?’

She sat on the end of the bed, shivering in the damp gown. ‘He as much as said he did. He made comment on my appearance. He knew how I expected the evening to end. And he turned me down. I fear I have insulted him. Or lessened his opinion of me.’

‘Then your friend left you to settle with Lord Barton yourself?’ Susan looked more than a little dismayed at the thought.

‘No. There was no problem about that. Mr Smythe said he was most willing to help, but that my gratitude was not necessary. Then he covered me up and sent me away.’

Susan sat on the end of the bed as well, clearly baffled. ‘Forgive me for saying it, your Grace, but he must be a most unusual gentleman.’

Constance frowned. ‘I think so as well, Susan.’

Anthony stared at the locked door of Barton’s safe, and felt the sweat forming on his palms. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs and removed the picks from his coat pocket. Now was not the time for a display of weak nerves or a distaste for the work at hand. He could fulfil his promise to Stanton and destroy the plates by burning the house down if he could not manage to open the safe.

But for the promise to Constance? A fire would do him no good, for it would destroy the thing he searched for. And she wanted immediate action.

Patrick had been right. It had been stupid of him to give way to temper, and waste the better part of the evening with drink. When reason had begun to return, he had realised that he might need every spare moment between now and Monday, working on the lock, if he wished to deliver the deed to Constance and forestall Barton. He had been forced to spend several more hours becoming sober enough to do the job at all, and still might not be unaffected enough to do it well.

Now, it was past three and he had but a few hours before dawn. It was the quietest part of the night, when all good men were asleep, leaving the bad ones the freedom to work in peace.

Entry to the study was as uneventful as it had been the night of Barton’s ball, even though he’d climbed up a drainpipe and into the window instead of using the stairs. Would that the results with the safe would be more successful than the last attempt.

The thing was still there, taunting him from its place on the wall behind the desk. Barton had not even bothered to conceal it, leaving its obvious presence as a sign of its impregnability.

If the man had anything of value, it was most assuredly behind the locked safe door. Tony had found the printing press in the basement along with the rest of the supplies, hidden under a Holland cloth, with little effort made to conceal them.

But there was no law against owning a press. To rid Barton of the paper would require one lucifer and the work of a moment, perhaps doused with the ink. Tony did not know if ink was particularly flammable, but, since so many things were, it was quite possible.

The engraved plates had to be somewhere in the house or the press would be useless. He fitted his pick into the lock and felt for the sliders, working one, and then another before feeling the pick slip. And now he must start over.

How many were there supposed to be? As many as eighteen, and any mistake meant a new beginning and more time wasted. He tried again, progressed slightly further and felt the pick slip in his sweaty hands.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. He swore silently and repeatedly. Then he took a deep breath and began again.

It would have to work, because he would not return to Constance empty handed. He imagined her as she had been when she visited him. Huge, dark eyes, smooth skin, red lips, body soft and willing.

And he had sent her away. He must have been mad.

Of course, what was one night of gratitude against a lifetime of devotion, if there was some way she could be persuaded to see his intentions towards her ran deeper than the physical? In the end, she would think him no better than Barton, if he took advantage of her need. There would be time, later, if he could wait.

He felt his pick catch another slider and move it into position. And he focused on the touch of the lock and the vision in his mind of her leaning close to whisper softly in his ear.

There was a click of the room’s door handle, which seemed as loud as a rifle shot in the dead silence of the house. Tony withdrew his pick and darted behind a curtain, praying that the velvet was not swaying to mark the passage of his body.

He could see the light at the edge of the curtain; the glow was faint, as though someone had entered the room, bearing a single candle.

A man, by the stride. Long, and with the click of a boot heel.

Barton.

Pace, pace, pace. Tony counted out enough steps for a man of nearly six foot to reach the desk.

He held his breath.

There was a faint rattle as a drawer was unlocked. The rustle of paper. A pause. A sigh. The sound of retreating footsteps, along with the retreating light. And the click of a door latch again.

Tony grinned to himself. Where best to keep a deed? In a safe? Hardly necessary, since no one would be seeking it. Best to keep it close, where one could admire it. Touch it when one wanted to reassure oneself of victory and fantasise over the conquered in the dark of night.

All in all, he was lucky that Barton was not keeping the document at his bedside. Perhaps with the prospect of Constance so firmly in his grasp, the deed was not necessary.

Tony stepped from behind the curtain and produced a penknife, then slid it along the space in the desk drawer until he heard a satisfying click. He opened the drawer and found the deed, face up in plain view.

Too easy, really, once one left common sense behind and entered the realm of obsession. He could almost feel sorry for Barton, had the man chosen a different object for his passion.

Tony folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. He went to the window and was gone.