Читать книгу Regency Marriages - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 11

By the end of the evening, Thea felt as though she had been boiled up in a copper with the sheets. She was exhausted, limp, by the time Almeria summoned the carriage to return to Grosvenor Square. But she had survived. She had renewed her acquaintance with a number of women who had been brought out in the same season as herself and had been accepted back into their number.

Her public acceptance by Diana Fox-Heaton ensured that. Diana had accompanied her back to the drawing room. Several women she had known as a girl had come up to her, inviting her to various parties. She thought about Diana as the maid readied her for bed. They had not been close friends years ago, but they had liked each other. And Diana had gone out of her way to help tonight. She had warned her that rumours were circulating. Rumours that suggested Miss Winslow’s long absence from society might have very little to do with mourning a lost love …

She shivered. Diana was married to Sir Francis—one of the very few people who could have any inkling of the truth. He had been a close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s, that was how she had come to know Diana. They had been part of the same circle. What would he say to his wife’s renewed friendship with her?

She slipped into bed and blew out the lamp. Despite her exhaustion, sleep mocked her. Diana had been quite as outspoken as Richard on the subject of Lord Dunhaven … Francis says he simply wants a brood mare—and that no father of sense will give his consent to such a marriage. You know, there was all sorts of gossip when his wife died—but nothing could be done. No servant would ever speak out in a matter like that!

Thea shivered. Aberfield, however, was willing to promote the match.

A hard-edged face slid into focus. Dark eyes that usually spoke of cool control, self-discipline—eyes that had positively blazed with some violent emotion this evening. Heat flickered, tingling inside her—Richard must really loathe Dunhaven for some reason, she told herself. She didn’t think she had ever seen him so angry—except once when he was a boy, and his mother had just visited … She sighed. She hadn’t much liked Richard’s mother herself and she wondered what the new Lady Blakehurst was like … Richard seemed to like her, even if Lady Arnsworth didn’t.

Richard walked back to Grosvenor Square in company with Braybrook. They had ended the evening in the card room, playing piquet for penny points with an added shilling for a game, and a pound a rubber. Richard had emerged ahead by a couple of pounds and half a bottle of brandy.

‘The sad thing is,’ said Richard, jingling the coins in his pocket, ‘that if I played for larger stakes, I’d lose resoundingly!’

‘Naturally,’ said Braybrook. ‘My father always said much the same; you only win when you can afford to lose. Pity he didn’t take his own advice speculating. Here we are—Arnsworth House.’

‘So it is,’ said Richard, inspecting the familiar portico.

A faint scraping sound brought both of them swinging around sharply. A small dark shape detached itself from the steps leading down to the area and resolved itself into a boy.

‘What the devil are you doing there?’ demanded Richard.

The lad hung back. ‘Would one of you be Mr Richard Blakehurst?’

‘What’s that to you, lad?’ asked Braybrook suspiciously.

Richard shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Julian,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Mr Blakehurst.’

‘Note for you then, guv,’ said the boy, approaching. ‘From a lidy,’ and pushed the note into Richard’s hand. He was gone in a flash, racing off along the pavement and disappearing around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street, before either of them could stop him.

Richard stared after him with raised brows. ‘Idiot boy,’ he said. ‘I’d have given him sixpence. Wonder who’s writing me love notes?’

Braybrook raised his brows. ‘Love notes, Ricky? You?’

Richard grinned, breaking the seal and opening the note. ‘Do you think you and Max are the only men in London ever to—good God!’

He stared in disgust. Who the hell had penned this filth?

Braybrook twitched the note out of his hand and read aloud, ‘How many times will you tup the gilded whore tonight?’ In an expressionless voice, he said, ‘Charming, Ricky. Absolutely charming.’ He handed it back.

Crumpling the note in his fist, Richard shoved it deep in the pocket of his coat. ‘Quite.’

The burning question, of course, was just who was the gilded whore? He hoped, he very much hoped, that he didn’t know the answer.

‘Sure you won’t seek lodgings, old man?’ asked Braybrook.

Richard shook his head curtly and limped up the steps, refusing to acknowledge the wisdom of the suggestion.

Thea frowned at the note from Lady Chasewater, inviting her to drive her in the park the following day. Relieved that it wasn’t for that afternoon, Thea managed to persuade Lady Arnsworth that a quiet hour in the back parlour would be more beneficial than more shopping.

Reluctantly, her ladyship consented. ‘Very well, dear. If you are quite sure it is necessary. You do look pale. And of course you must send a note accepting Laetitia’s invitation. She is very influential. And there must be no question of you not being able to attend the Montacute ball this evening, so I suppose …’

Thea assured her that with a little quiet she would be perfectly ready to attend the ball and Lady Arnsworth departed.

Telling Myles that she was not at home to anyone, Thea asked for a pot of tea to be brought to her in the parlour.

Ten minutes later she was ensconced on a sofa with her writing box and sipping her tea. Peace descended in the familiar room. Faint sounds from the street and the mews reached her, but they seemed oddly detached, as though the house hung suspended beyond the noise.

Hastily she wrote a note to Lady Chasewater, assuring her that she would be delighted to drive with her the following day. Then she summoned a footman to take the note. That done, she took out another sheet of paper to write to Aunt Maria.

For a few moments her pen scratched away. Then it stilled as her concentration wavered and she gazed about the familiar room. Little had changed since last she had been there. It was not a public room, and the furniture was rather old-fashioned and crowded. Not a crocodile leg or sphinx in sight, as though the room had been forgotten when Lady Arnsworth redecorated.

Of all the rooms in Arnsworth House, this was the one she had always known best when she visited as a child. Here Richard had spent his days after the riding accident that broke his left leg. Here, she had been introduced to him at the age of five, as a suitable chess opponent. She smiled, remembering. The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked off the exclamation of disgust. He had, however, taught her to play chess.

She laid the pen down.

What was he really like now? She had known him as a boy, but did she know the man? Perhaps she did. No doubt he still loved dogs. And horses. The fuss there had been when he insisted on riding again after his accident! His mother and Lady Arnsworth would have kept him wrapped in cotton wool on the sofa if he hadn’t been so stubborn about it. She couldn’t believe that would have changed. Richard could make a mule look cooperative.

Which probably meant he was in no danger of being lured into a matrimonial trap with her.

And he was still kind. Protective. The thought stole through her, insensibly warming. He had been protective last night. No, that had not changed. So perhaps she did still know him. A little. Far better than he could know her.

The child who had known Richard was gone beyond recall, as if a knife had slashed the thread of her life leaving it in two utterly separate pieces. Short useless pieces that could never be woven back into the pattern.

No one knew her now. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know herself. There was no point wondering about Richard Blakehurst. He was no concern of hers. She thrust the thoughts away and went back to her letter. That was how she had learnt to manage. One thing at a time; concentrate on the task at hand.

The only sound within the parlour was the scratching of Thea’s pen as she concentrated on manufacturing neat, ladylike sentences for Aunt Mary.

A light tap at the door disturbed her.

‘Yes?’

The door opened and Myles came in. ‘A note for you, miss.’

‘Oh. Thank you, Myles.’

She took the note with a smile.

‘Will that be all, miss?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll ring if I need to send a reply.’

As the door closed behind the butler, Thea looked at the note. A single sheet folded once and sealed with a plain seal. It was directed to Miss Winslow, Arnsworth House, in clumsy, ill-formed capitals. Thea frowned, broke the seal and opened the note.

Time stood still and her veins congealed as the single word slashed her hard-won peace to shreds: SLUT.

Who? Who?

How long she sat staring at the note, she had no idea, but a deep voice wrenched her out of the nightmare with a shock like icy water.

‘What the deuce have you got here?’

The writing box hit the floor, accompanied by the crash of splintering glass and china as the inkpot and teacup broke. Thea found herself on her feet, every sense at full stretch, one fist clenched. Ready to fight.

Richard’s shocked face steadied her. ‘It’s only me, Thea.’ Then, ‘Damn! Stay still!’

He strode towards her, his expression fiercely intent.

Despite herself, she flinched, stepping back.

‘Damn it, woman! I said to stay still!’ he roared.

She froze in sheer outrage, and he was beside her, his booted feet crunching on the ruins of the inkpot and teacup.

And gasped as she was lifted bodily with ease and dumped back on the sofa with a marked lack of ceremony.

‘And stay there,’ he growled, ‘while I send for someone to clear this up. Those slippers won’t protect you from a shard of glass!’

She looked down. Broken glass and china sat in the lake of spilled ink and tea soaking into the Turkey carpet. And with them the anonymous note.

Sanity flooded back in some measure, but the violence of her reaction still shook her. ‘I … I didn’t hear you come in.’ She leaned forward and reached for the paper.

His mouth quirked. ‘Obviously.’ And before she could stop him, he had bent down for the note. ‘Here you—’ it was open, face up—’Good God!’ he exclaimed, staring at the note.

Then he looked up and Thea’s stomach turned over as she met his eyes. Fury, sheer protective fury blazed there.

Oh, God! If Richard tried to find out …

For a moment the shocked silence held, then Richard spoke, scarcely recognising his own voice, soft, deadly. ‘Who the devil sent you this?’ He forced himself to consider the matter logically, controlling the choking rage. Last night’s note had disgusted him, but this! His fingers shook in the effort not to shred the note.

He turned it over. Like his, the seal had been plain, the writing consisted of clumsy and ill-formed capitals … and directed very clearly to Thea. This piece of … of filth had been intended for her. As last night’s note had been directed straight to him. His fist clenched, crushing the note. His own note he might have ignored, but if he ever found out who had sent this—he’d serve them the same way. Slowly.

‘Who sent it?’ he repeated.

‘I don’t know.’ There was not the least tremor in her voice now and her eyes were steady and clear. ‘Myles brought it in. It’s nothing to fuss about, Richard. Just foolish spite.’ She essayed a faint laugh. ‘No doubt the rumours of my fortune inspired it. I’d burn it, but the fire isn’t lit.’

Undoubtedly the fire was where it belonged. If he had not been watching her for a moment before he spoke and startled her, he might have believed her not to be upset. But he had seen the pallor of her face as she stared at the note, seen her hands trembling. She had been so lost in whatever emotion had gripped her that she had not even heard him enter the room. And now she was trying to hide it from him.

Surely a piece of casual spite would not strike to the heart like that? She had looked devastated. Had she heard the whispers the previous night? Should he mention his own note? Common sense said he should. But …

‘Do you receive many letters like that?’

‘No! Give it back, Richard. I’ll burn it later.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you touching it again.’ The thought of a piece of vileness like this coming anywhere near her offended him. He put the crumpled note in his pocket.

Flushing, she met his gaze. ‘I thought you were out.’

As an attempt to change the subject it was pitiful. ‘I came home,’ he said. ‘Thea, that note—’

‘Please—no,’ she interrupted. ‘I know what you would say—that I ought to find out who sent it, but really, Richard, it doesn’t matter. Just burn it for me. It’s just someone … someone who doesn’t like me, I suppose. Someone … very unhappy.’

‘How do you work that out?’ he growled.

Her eyes dropped. ‘Oh, well … can you imagine a happy person sending a note like that?’

He couldn’t, of course. There were times when feminine intuition was absolutely irrefutable. Only he could have sworn she meant something far more specific. Something personal. That she knew who had sent it, or at least suspected.

‘Leave it, Richard,’ she urged. ‘There’s no point making a fuss. It was horrid and I admit gave me quite a shock, but that’s all.’ She smiled at him, eyes steady. ‘What brought you in here?’

Another attempt to change the subject.

He didn’t like it. Not one little bit. Every instinct told him that Thea was deeply shaken, that her increasing calm was a façade, that if she knew of the note he had received she would be even more upset. For now he would accept her reticence. It seemed more important to distract her from the vile note. And definitely more important to distract her from wondering what he might do about it.

‘What brought me in here?’ He smiled. ‘Myles told me you were here and he swears that Almeria is out.’ The mess of ink and tea caught his eye and he reached out to ring the bell. ‘So I thought it would be safe to have a game of chess without giving her any encouragement.’

‘Chess? In here? Do you … do you think that’s wise?’ Suddenly self-conscious, she said, ‘If Lady Arnsworth has some idea … that is, that we … that we—’

She broke off and Richard had to suppress a grin.

‘That we might make a match of it?’ he suggested helpfully. ‘So she’s spoken to you about it, has she?’

She flushed. ‘She didn’t precisely say anything to me. Only …’

Richard laughed. ‘Didn’t she? You escaped lightly. She said a great deal to me. Very precisely and in detail. You must know that Almeria has been trying to marry me off to the nearest available fortune for the past ten years!’

Something flickered in her face. Pain? This was not the moment to suggest to her that maybe they should give some thought to Almeria’s matchmaking. Not when she had just stopped calling him sir with every second breath. Instead, he said gently, ‘Thea, we need not consider it. You must know that I would never court any woman for her fortune, let alone you. We can still be friends, can we not? Despite Almeria’s meddling?’

For a moment Thea hesitated. Friends … it would be safer not … Yet, unbidden, some long-buried, unrecognisable sensation unfurled within her. She nodded. ‘Friends. Yes.’

He smiled. ‘Good. Then leave Miss Winslow in the drawing room where she belongs.’ He rose, stepped carefully over the mess of ink and broken glass and china and went over to a large, old-fashioned chest under the window. ‘Now, let’s see …’

Leave Miss Winslow in the drawing room …

‘What do you mean?’

He shot her a glance. ‘Miss Winslow is all very well for the rest of the world. But I’ve always been quite fond of Thea.’

He knelt down with a muttered curse and pulled out the bottom drawer. ‘Ah hah! Here we are.’

Despite her confusion, Thea felt the unaccustomed smile curving her lips, warming her heart. He had found the old chess set he had taught her to play with. And there in the corner, half-hidden behind a fire screen, was the little chess table.

That sensation inside her stirred again, and this time she recognised it with shock. It was happiness. She had been so utterly determined to enjoy herself, even if she had to pretend, and here happiness had been quietly waiting within to be let out. Along with the Thea he said he was fond of? Was she waiting to escape too?

Automatically the old words of challenge rose to her lips. ‘No quarter? No chivalry?’

His answering smile flashed, lighting the dark brown eyes. ‘To the death!’

Together they set out the pieces, the memories of all the times they had done this stretching back and forth between them.

‘You were about five when I taught you how to do this,’ said Richard.

She looked up, an answering smile in her eyes. ‘You must have thought I was the most frightful little pest.’

‘I did. And I was furious with Almeria. I’d been enjoying my games with Myles. He kept having to rush off to do his job, so I had plenty of time to contemplate my moves. Try to work out what he would do next. And, of course, he could actually play. A distinct advantage.’

‘Rather than having to teach me?’

He thought back, pushing out a pawn. ‘You learnt fast enough. Once you found your voice and started asking questions.’

‘I was terrified your leg would fall off,’ confessed Thea.

‘What!’ A pawn went flying as he spluttered with laughter.

She went scarlet. ‘Well, from what Lady Arnsworth told Mama, I thought your leg had been broken off and stuck back on. And my nurse was always saying I could talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I thought if it fell off again while I was there everyone would blame me!’ She glared at him, as though daring him to laugh.

Laughter shook him anyway, as he righted the fallen pawn. Amazing how one could laugh at a terror almost twenty years old. At the time he’d still been having nightmares that he would lose the leg after all.

‘No wonder you didn’t say anything,’ he said with a grin.

Bit by bit, the constraint between them loosened and he found himself telling her what he had been doing since last he’d seen her. Learning about the land to be, in essence, Max’s steward. ‘Since I have now bought my own place, at least I know what I’m doing,’ he said.

‘Your own place?’

And he told her about the small property just ten miles from Blakeney over the North Downs; the sheep grazing on the uplands and the old house and gardens nestled in their small, hidden valley, sheltered from the worst of the storms that could sweep up the Channel.

‘Not grand,’ he said, ‘but it will be a home. Enough for me.’

‘Sheep?’ she said. ‘You? I thought you would remain at Oxford.’

If Max had not inherited, he probably would have. ‘Sheep,’ he informed her, ‘have a long and noble history in this country. I’ve been going through the Blakeney papers. Centuries they go back, and sheep are mentioned frequently.’ Odd, but he was finding the task just as stimulating as more conventional study at Oxford. He tried to explain that to Thea in answer to her questions, and realised that somehow he had done nothing but talk about his own concerns for over an hour.

He looked at the mantel clock. Well over an hour. ‘I must be boring you rigid!’ he said. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me to shut up?’

‘Because you weren’t boring me,’ she said. ‘Because I was imagining it all, and seeing how right it all is for you. It sounds wonderful, Richard. Peaceful, yet busy. Fulfilling. Something practical to fill your days, and something to occupy your mind. That was always what you needed.’

With a shock he realised that she was exactly right, that Oxford had never quite been right for him because of that. That he had given it up and come home so readily when Max asked, because deep down he had known that.

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What have your days held?’ Too late he remembered that the question might be unwelcome, but it was gone now, and could no more be recalled than a loosed arrow.

Only in the tightening of her mouth did he see the question strike home. She didn’t look up from the board, but said at last, ‘Very little. After … after I was considered out of mourning I remained with Aunt Maria. She … she required a companion, and since I had—have—no wish to marry, it seemed the logical thing.’ She moved her knight.

He didn’t know what to say. She had said that yesterday—that she did not wish to marry. But surely …

‘My brother thought that he would never marry,’ he said. ‘And I doubt that he has ever been happier than he is now.’

She did look up at that. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Tell me about your sister-in-law. She is … expecting a baby, is she not?’

He heard the faint hesitation and ached. Was that something she had wanted, and thought now was for ever lost to her? Nevertheless, she had changed the subject, and he could only respect that. So he made his countermove, and told her a little about Max and Verity, that the baby was nearly due, and that Max was terrified. Far more so than Verity herself.

Thea did not look up again, but surveyed the board, apparently concentrating, soft pink lips very slightly pursed. But her hands, resting in her lap, shifted continually, fiddling with her cuffs, turning a small turquoise ring on her little finger.

He should be concentrating himself, predicting her likely move and its consequences. He knew what he wanted her to do, what nine people out of ten would do at this point. Only it seemed unimportant, compared to the stray curl escaping to tickle her face and make her frown. She pushed it back and his own fingers itched to capture the wisp and tuck it in safely. Or to release a few more of her softly curling tresses to twine about his fingers. He leaned forwards …

She glanced up, pushing the errant wisp out of her eyes yet again. Their eyes met, his suddenly narrowed, intent; hers wide and startled. Reality reined in his half-formed desire. What in Hades had come over him? He needed to conduct this courtship logically … and playing chess was a very rational and logical thing to do.

Dazed, he realised that in the space of two hours he’d gone from considering the possibility of amatch to courtship. Thea had loved once, and was disinclined to give her heart again. Would she perhaps consider a marriage based on friendship? Mutual interests and understanding? Would that be enough for her?

She reached out and he watched, fascinated, as the slender, graceful fingers hovered over her knight. He rather thought she had seen his little trap. And the next question occurred to him: would such a marriage be enough for him?

The door opened.

‘Mr Winslow,’ announced Myles.

‘David!’ cried Thea as her brother stalked in.

Richard looked up. Winslow’s eyes glinted gun metal as he took in the scene.

‘Good afternoon, Winslow.’ For a moment the quiet greeting hung there and then David Winslow seemed to relax infinitesimally.

‘Blakehurst.’ A rather reluctant smile curved his mouth. ‘I remember that you were fond of chess. Am I interrupting?’

Thea glanced back at him questioningly.

‘Yes. You are,’ said Richard blandly. ‘You will have to wait about three seconds for your sister.’ He shot Thea a grin. ‘It will take her about that long to mop up my king.’

Thea chuckled, an unshadowed ripple of delight that sent streamers of pleasure curling through him. A sudden movement caught his attention. About to seat himself on the sofa, David Winslow’s head had jerked up, his gaze fixed on his sister, as though he had only just seen her. Startled grey eyes flickered to Richard, and then back to Thea in wonder and speculation.

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he said with an odd smile.

As Richard had predicted, his king fell in short order.

‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘That will teach me not to underestimate you again. I’ll take my revenge on another occasion, Thea.’ He rose and turned to Winslow. ‘I’ll bid you good day and leave you with your sister.’

Winslow stood. ‘As to that, Blakehurst …’ He hesitated, seeming to consider something and coming to a swift decision. ‘I was hoping for a word with you later.’

Richard held his gaze. ‘Were you, indeed?’ A challenge? A warning?

Winslow looked very slightly embarrassed. Probably not a challenge, then. ‘Er, yes. Perhaps you might care to dine with me this evening at my lodgings? I’m in Jermyn Street.’ He took his case out of his pocket and handed a card to Richard.

Definitely not a challenge.

Richard took the card. ‘Very well, Winslow. What time?’

‘Will eight suit you?’

‘Of course. I shall look forward to it.’ He smiled at Thea. ‘Save me a dance this evening, won’t you? Or even two.’

‘A dance?’

‘Yes, a dance.’ He grinned at her look of confusion. ‘You know what a dance is—something you do with your legs.’

The door closed behind him and Thea strangled the urge to scream in frustration. Curse him! She knew what a dance was—what she really wanted to know was if he envisioned dancing with her or still preferred to sit out because of his leg. Although … something you do with your legs … that did rather suggest that he intended to dance …

Banishing speculation, she turned to David. ‘Why do you wish to speak to Richard?’

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared thoughtfully at the chess set.

‘I’d forgotten how fond of you he was, Thea,’ he said at last. ‘I understand he stepped in for you with Dunhaven last night—’ he frowned ‘—even if he did take you off somewhere alone.’

She saw where that was going immediately.

‘No!’ she said furiously, banishing the memory of the earlier look in Richard’s eyes that had for a moment spoken of more than friendship. ‘I mean, yes, he did—but don’t read anything into it beyond his good nature! He wished to warn me about Dunhaven. Just as you did!’

Not kiss her. And even if he had, any curiosity she might have felt on what it might have been like had been well and truly extinguished years ago. She knew what a man’s kisses were like.

‘Thea—’

‘No!’ She ignored the odd little voice that whispered that she wished it could have been different, that she could share the peaceful life Richard was creating for himself. And that she was being illogical in lumping all men and their kisses in the one pile. Richard’s kisses might be as different as the man himself.

There was no rule forcing fear to be logical.

Forcing that out of her mind as well, she said, ‘You are perfectly right; Richard is fond of me. He considers me a friend. Leave it, David. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose one.’

‘Are you so sure that you would lose a friend?’

She laughed at that. A sound without a vestige of humour. ‘Ask yourself how you might react in a similar situation.’

David sighed. ‘Very well. Why don’t you put on a bonnet and pelisse? I’ll take you to Gunther’s for an ice.’

She stared. ‘An ice?’

He smiled. ‘Why not? You like them. Or you certainly used to. And I’m prepared to wager you haven’t had one in eight years!’

Richard found Myles in the butler’s pantry. This was one of those moments when action was vital. Apart from the need to do something about the letters, he needed something to occupy his mind. Something other than the queer longing that stirred in him at the memory of Thea saying he had found exactly what he needed in life. In one sense she was perfectly correct, but he had a niggling idea that something was still missing. Or if not missing, perhaps unrecognised. Some final colour or shape to complete the picture. One thread to knit the whole.

‘Who sent the note, Mr Richard?’ Myles looked puzzled. ‘Why, I’m sure I couldn’t say. Edmund must have answered the door, I believe, since he was on duty in the entrance hall. He came to me with the note, asking where Miss Winslow might be. I took it up to her.’

Richard nodded. ‘Very well. Send Edmund to me in my room, please.’

Ten minutes later, Richard swore as his bedchamber door closed behind Edmund. The footman had not seen whoever had delivered the note. It had been pushed under the front door and the bell rung. He’d had a brief glimpse of a boy running off. A dead end. But perhaps he could learn something from the notes themselves.

Frowning, he found the note from last night, pulled Thea’s note out of his pocket and spread the pair of them out flat on the dressing table. He’d looked at enough old documents in his life. Surely he could tell something from these?

Not much. Each had been written on the same ordinary, good-quality paper. The watermark wouldn’t help. It was common enough. What about the handwriting? A contrived-looking scrawl of capitals, which he suspected was nothing like the writer’s ordinary hand. A faint fragrance teased him … feminine, flowery. Frowning, he sniffed at the note. The odour seemed to cling to it … as though the writer had perhaps been wearing perfume—on her wrists, at the pulse points. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He was looking for a woman.

He also had the answer he hadn’t wanted the night before; the gilded whore referred to in his note was Thea herself. Something else from the previous evening came back to him; a woman’s voice, dripping with malicious gossip about Thea—I had the most interesting letter, my dear … Such a simple way to start gossip if you didn’t wish to be identified.

Deep inside he was conscious of fury burning with a cold intensity. When he found the culprit …

Common sense spoke up; unless the sender was foolish enough to send any more notes here to Arnsworth House, it was going to be devilishly hard to find out who she was. His jaw hardened. Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. And there was something else; with a grim sense of resignation, Richard acknowledged that whatever the wisdom of seeking lodgings all thought of it had been abandoned—he was remaining at Arnsworth House.