Читать книгу Once A Rake - Rona Sharon - Страница 9

“I’m sorry, ladies.” Mr. Flowers closed the book he’d been perusing and scuttled to another crowded bookshelf. “I’ve nothing new to present to you. You’ll have to come back next week.”

“That’s what you said last week,” Isabel muttered. Cramped together with Iris and Sophie on a threadbare settee, she surveyed the dusty, cobwebbed office and fought a violent urge to get up and open a window. She had a physical dislike of closed spaces, and the stale air was making her nauseous in addition to giving her a headache.

Yet despite the pitiful condition of his office, Mr. Flowers was a brilliant legal mind, who, due to an illness that caused his hands to shake, had had to leave a successful career as a public prosecutor. If anyone could draw up a winning bill proposal, it was this man.

“Mr. Flowers,” Iris began, “we have provided you with all the information you’d asked for. I see no reason why this should take so long. I’m not in the habit of speaking unkindly, but you, sir, are dragging your heels on this, and we are losing our patience.”

“Ugh, you two!” Sophie sniffed scornfully. She pulled a few banknotes out of her reticule and smacked them on the solicitor’s table. “Would this help speed the process along, monsieur?”

Isabel shot Sophie a questioning look but then realized that her friend, who had spent her childhood barefoot and begging for coin on the streets of Paris, was probably right. She dug into her purse and extracted a thick stack of banknotes. Before Mr. Flowers noticed the interlude, she placed half the sum owed to the solicitor on the desk and stuffed Sophie’s banknotes back into her bag. Keeping her voice low, she explained, “We received a substantial donation yesterday.”

Iris’s head swerved toward her. “What? From whom?”

“Hush. I’ll explain later,” Isabel murmured.

Mr. Flowers peered beyond the pages of another moldy volume. “Well now.” With a broad smile he closed the book and took his chair behind the desk. “Thank you, Mrs. Fairchild. We all need to eat from time to time.” He extended a shaky hand toward the stack of banknotes.

Isabel covered it with her palm. “Mr. Flowers,” she smiled, “I couldn’t help noticing that when Lady Chilton referred to the information we had supplied you with, you twitched, sir.”

“Hmm.” The solicitor eyed her critically. “You’d make a fearsome litigator, Miss Aubrey. You have an eye for detecting irregular behavior in witnesses.”

“I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Flowers. Now, if you please?” She didn’t appreciate being told she had a natural aptitude for cold-blooded occupations.

“That’s the thing—information!” He held up a quivering finger. “Your ideas are humane, logical, and quite advanced, I must say. However, to bring them before Parliament without an estimate of the cost the new bill should entail, will ensure the bill gets tossed offhandedly.”

The three ladies sagged on the settee, grimacing. “You should have told us weeks ago,” Iris admonished. “What sort of additional information do you need, Mr. Flowers?”

“I need figures, lists.”

“What sort of lists?” Isabel prodded.

“Army lists—names, terms of service, ranks, and salaries, of course.”

“Army personnel files?” Isabel could see her goals crumbling before her very eyes. “The lists are confidential. What’s more, access to them is highly restricted.”

“How do you suppose we acquire the lists, Monsieur Flowers?” Sophie demanded curtly.

He laced his wobbly hands over a heap of papers. “Any way you can.”

Isabel could think of only two ways to obtain classified army files: Either break into the Horse Guards and steal them or go back to Ashby. The second was both tempting and daunting, and it served in strengthening her resolve of last night to return to him.

“Assuming we get ahold of the lists,” Sophie said, “how do we go about putting together an estimate? Would you be able to supply us with examples…?”

“In cases such as this, I recommend employing an accountant. It’ll cost more,” he warned.

“I see.” Isabel twisted her lips. “All we need to do is obtain the information.”

“Precisely.”

“Who, in your opinion, should have access to these army lists, Mr. Flowers?” Iris asked.

“The high command, the Ministry of War…”

“If we are to approach influential parties and ask for collaboration,” Isabel mused aloud, already plotting her next visit to Ashby, “we’ll need something tangible to stir their civic-minded interest. Have you put something together, Mr. Flowers? Anything at all, in writing, that is?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” He pulled out one of the drawers in his desk and produced a leather brief. “This is the body of the proposal, but as I said, without the numbers—”

“It’s but a stack of good intentions equal to nonsense.” Isabel stood up, drawing Sophie and Iris up with her. “Thank you, Mr. Flowers. I hope we shall be getting somewhere very soon.”

“From now on, it’ll be up to you. Good day, ladies.”

As they climbed into Isabel’s coach, Iris asked, “What was this bit about us receiving a substantial donation? You said nothing about it last night. Indeed, you were quite—”

“Ineffective. I know, and I apologize. I was…out of sorts.” Isabel opened a window and breathed deeply. Yet the air in the City, the bustling part of town, was as stifling as inside Mr. Flowers’s office. She settled against the squabs and bit back a smile. “But later I received a box containing five thousand pounds and a note stating it was for us.”

“Five thousand pounds! Mon dieu!” Sophie exclaimed. “That’s superb!”

Iris looked equally dazzled. “Five thousand pounds…Do you realize what we can accomplish with five thousand pounds?”

“Bribe a secretary at the Horse Guards for the lists we need?” Sophie suggested slyly.

Iris twisted her lips. “And how will we explain stumbling upon this information when we present our bill proposal to Parliament, pray tell?”

“Really, Iris,” Sophie rolled her eyes at Isabel, “sometimes you sound like my conscience.”

Iris ignored her. “Izzy, who is our benefactor?”

Oh, dear. Isabel hadn’t thought of an answer to that. “I wouldn’t know.” She puckered her lips, resembling the cat that ate the canary. She never lied to her friends. She only fibbed when her mama became intolerably pesky and interfering. She considered explaining about Ashby, but thought better of it. While Iris and Sophie were the most delightfully eccentric, trustworthy friends, they were also very protective of her and mindful of propriety’s strict rules. If she told them about her visit to the Gargoyle, she would get an earful of how a lady should and should not behave and of the risks to her reputation. Furthermore, they would want to go see him together. The idea did not appeal to her in the least. He was a recluse, for pity’s sake. She had no right to inflict her friends on him. “It was signed PNL. Do we know anyone by that name?”

Thankfully, her friends looked mystified; they didn’t recognize the initials. “What a bizarre thing,” Iris remarked. “A benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“It is the very definition of charity,” Sophie declared. “He who practices charity in secret is greater than Moses.’ Our generous benefactor chose to make his contribution in secret so as not to injure the pride of those in need, which proves that he or she did it in earnest, not to gain favor in the eyes of the ton. I deem this person remarkable.”

More than they would ever know, Isabel thought. Ashby could have given her the donation in person, but he didn’t want her thanks. He contented himself with the knowledge that she would put his money to good use—and he thought Will was a saint. She smiled to herself. Show me your friends and I shall tell you who you are. How could she not admire him?

“We still haven’t found a sponsor,” Iris reminded them. “Whom do we know that could help us obtain the lists and address Parliament on our behalf?”

“I could speak to Admiral Duckworth at the assembly at Almack’s tomorrow evening,” Sophie suggested. “When my George died, the admiral came to call and made me promise I’d come to him first whenever I needed anything. He said he owed George his very life.”

“That’s a start,” Iris concurred. “I could speak to Chilton, but I doubt he…”

“Your husband won’t help us,” Isabel said grimly. “He would only use this to torment you further and blackmail you into doing his bidding.”

“He does that anyway.” Iris lowered her eyes but said nothing more on the subject.

Isabel squeezed her hand. “Come now, ladies. We are intelligent, imaginative women. We should be able to come up with a sound plan to help us accomplish our goals. I’ve a grand idea. Why don’t we stop for luncheon at our favorite café in Piccadilly and plot this through? I am in a desperate need of fresh air and nourishment.” When her friends nodded eagerly, she stuck her head out the window. “Jackson, Piccadilly if you please!”

Forty minutes later they were drinking lemonade and gobbling cucumber sandwiches while observing the fashionable world passing by on foot and in elegant vehicles.

“How is your secret project coming along?” Iris asked Isabel.

Isabel almost dropped her glass of lemonade. “Secret project?”

“The poor widow and her little boy,” Iris clarified. “The ones you took out of Bishopsgate when you rescued your maid’s cousin.”

Wiping her lemonade-sputtered hands on a napkin, Isabel replied in low tones, “Very well. I’m teaching Molly her letters and basic arithmetic. She’s an apt pupil. And little Joe is a joy.”

“What will you do with them?” Sophie asked. “You can’t adopt all the waifs and strays in London. Before you know it, you’ll have an army on your hands.”

“You might as well open your own almshouse—St. Isabel of Mayfair.” Iris smiled.

“The idea is not to keep them dependent. I hope to provide Molly with enough education to help her find a good position somewhere so that she would be able to provide for her son.”

“Let’s find her a husband,” Sophie proposed. “We’ll open a matchmaking service and—”

“Dear Lord!” Iris jumped. She snatched her shawl off the back of the chair, looking as pale as though she had seen a ghost. “I must go. I…promised Chilton I’d be home before one o’clock and…it’s nearly two.”

Isabel stood up and caught her hand. “Iris, take my coach and send it back for us.”

“No need. I’ll hail a hack.” Iris ran out of the café and disappeared in the milling crowd.

Sophie cursed in French. “That awful man! I should like to strangle him and throw him in a ditch. How dare he keep Iris like a pet in a cage? She must present him with a detailed schedule every day and ask for his permission to leave the house. She cannot dance or converse with other gentlemen. She needs the ogre’s consent to breathe. Why does she put up with this treatment?”

“You know as well as I do that Iris has nowhere else to go,” Isabel said sadly. “A husband is not always the answer.” Their friend was a prime example of the unhappy lot of women who lost their male protectors in the war. It amazed her how Iris never once lamented her situation.

“Good God! Little Izzy Aubrey!” A deep, male voice chuckled. “I don’t believe it.”

Isabel looked up and felt the blood draining from her head. Yet the tall, handsome, auburn-haired hussar attired in the 18^th royal blue uniform was neither Will nor Ashby. A smile that was equal parts relieved, pleased, and disappointed spread on her face. “Why, if it isn’t Captain Ryan Macalister! What a pleasure it is to see you here, of all places. Why don’t you join us, captain?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He smiled dazzlingly and sketched a handsome bow before Sophie. When he straightened, rich brown hair fell rakishly over his eye. He settled in Iris’s vacant chair. “I must say it is a pleasure to see you, too, Izzy, eh, beg pardon, Miss Aubrey.”

“Isabel will do,” she returned warmly. “Captain, allow me to introduce my dear friend, Mrs. Fairchild. Sophie’s husband was a navy lieutenant. We deeply mourn his loss.”

Ryan’s expression turned grim. “You have my deepest condolences, Mrs. Fairchild. I lost a sad number of good friends in the war.” He looked at Isabel. “Your brother was the hardest loss.”

“You are very kind.” Isabel smiled bravely.

“Thank you, captain,” Sophie echoed. “I understand you served with Major Will?”

“Indeed.” Ryan nodded proudly. “Major William Aubrey made our lives tolerable when it was intolerable. I dearly miss his quick wit and friendly smile.”

Isabel swiped a tear off her cheek. “So tell me. What brings you to London? I was under the impression you took a commission in India.”

“I did. I am stationed in India, a major now.” He showed her his new rank distinction.

The déjà vu was almost too painful. “Congratulations, major. And is India to your liking?”

“Hardly. The weather is hot. Every rock is some snake’s residence. The spicy food whittles away at my stomach. The company in my new regiment leaves a lot to be desired…”

“A new regiment?” Isabel scowled.

“Yes. They are disbanding the 18^th. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“We suffered too many losses, among them our finest officers.” He held her gaze, revealing just how deeply he shared her grief. “And now that Ashby is retired…Well, he is a tough act to follow. Even my regimentals are becoming obsolete. I am to acquire new ones.” He grimaced.

Isabel felt like crying. “Is this the reason you are here?”

The handsome major leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “I’m supposedly consulting a doctor regarding a foot injury, but between you and me, I’m hoping to fall upon a reason that would keep me here for good.” He winked.

“A reason?”

Sustaining her gaze, he rested an elbow on the table and cupped his chin. “A fair reason.”

Her cheeks bloomed with color. “Well, major, I pray your hunt shall be successful.”

“I have every reason to believe it will be, Isabel. In fact—” he grinned lopsidedly “—I feel encouraged already.”

Averting her gaze, Isabel caught sight of Sophie’s knowing smile.

“I must say,” he went on flirtatiously, “I should have anticipated you would turn out to be a beauty. Pity I didn’t speak to your brother years ago. You haven’t been snagged yet, have you?”

“No, major. I haven’t.” Isabel bit her lip to keep from smiling like a dolt. Ryan Macalister had always been a charmer, but the effect of his regimentals was almost…irresistible.

“Excellent news. This calls for a toast.” He raised his hand, signaling for a waiter. “What are you having, ladies?”

Sophie gestured at the large, nearly empty plate. “You may have the last sandwich.”

“Thanks.” He snatched the sandwich and popped it into his mouth. A waiter approached. “Kindly bring us a bottle of your finest Hock and another plate of sandwiches.”

“And an ice,” Isabel put in. “I should like to have a cherry ice.”

“A cherry ice for the lady. Lively, man!” Ryan dismissed the listless waiter. “Incidentally, I saw a third lady leaving your table. I hope I didn’t scare her off.”

“Lady Chilton had to leave early,” Sophie replied.

Ryan’s gaze dropped to the brief resting beneath his elbow. “What’s this?”

“A bill proposal for Parliament,” Isabel explained, gaining a raised eyebrow.

“Indeed? Tell me about it.”

Sophie and Isabel discussed the charity and its goals. Ryan seemed genuinely impressed.

“The trouble is,” Isabel went on, “without the lists our proposal is worthless. Do you by any chance have access to the army’s personnel files?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “But I know someone who does. And so do you.”

Isabel prayed her expression didn’t give her away. “Who?”

He filled their glasses with wine. “Ashby.”

Isabel’s hand shook as she lifted a spoonful of cherry ice to her mouth. “Colonel Lord Ashby hasn’t been to Seven Dover Street for many years.”

“Who is this Ashby, Izzy?” Sophie inquired.

Isabel swallowed the ice. “He was Will’s best friend. By the end of the war he commanded the regiment. Now he is a…recluse.”

Sophie lowered her voice. “Is he the one they call ‘the Gargoyle’?”

Isabel met Ryan’s dark gaze and was heartened to note he found the derogatory epithet as distasteful as she did. “Damned shame, that is,” he said. “I still can’t believe he has withdrawn from Society altogether.”

Isabel leaned forward, endeavoring not to seem overly intrigued. “What happened to him?”

Ryan sighed. “A cannon-shell exploded in his face during a charge in Sorauren, wounded him within an inch of his life. He underwent a field surgery and was bedridden for six months.”

“Did he go about in a mask afterward?” Isabel inquired quietly.

“A mask? Ashby?” Ryan snorted with disdain. “As soon as he was on his feet, he went on leading every charge. He used to joke about it, saying that the sight of his face would kill more Frenchmen than us good-for-nothing cowards could. Wellington awarded him the Gold Medal.”

“If he didn’t mind it then, why did he become a recluse upon returning to England?”

Ryan dropped his gaze. “I didn’t say he didn’t mind. As I recall, there was talk of a scandal involving his…” He clammed up.

Isabel gritted her teeth. She ached to know everything about Ashby. “Why is he a recluse?”

“I think his withdrawal from Society has something to do with the death of your brother,” he hedged, “but don’t take my word for it. He was my superior officer. He didn’t confide in me.”

“He never came to call on us after Will died.”

“Don’t hold it against him,” Ryan asked softly. “He was devastated over Will.”

A lump formed in her throat. “I believe you, and I don’t hold it against him.”

“Why don’t you and Major Macalister call on Lord Ashby together, Izzy? He may just be the sort of sponsor we need.”

Isabel stiffened. “But…but…he’s a recluse.”

“I called on him before I left for India,” Ryan mentioned, “but the butler wouldn’t allow me inside Lancaster House. One would have to be Wellington to get admitted there.”

“Do you know Wellington, major?” Sophie inquired. “An introduction to the Iron Duke would greatly benefit our cause.”

“I salute him when I see him. He sometimes remembers my name, but other than that…” He smiled sheepishly, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Do you attend Almack’s tomorrow evening?” Isabel asked. Perhaps during a waltz, she might get him to reveal more about Ashby without Sophie hanging on their every word.

“Ryan,” he amended. His eyes smoldered as a devilish smile formed on his lips. “I’m not sure they’ll let me in with all those debutantes fluttering about, but now that I know you will be there, I shall endeavor to procure myself a voucher. Will you reward me with a waltz, Isabel?”

“With pleasure.”

“I should very much like to call on you sometime, pay my respects to Lady Aubrey.”

“I shall look forward to seeing you. I’m sure Mama and Stilgoe would love to chat with one of Will’s old cronies.”

He contemplated her eyes. “There is an excellent place on Berkley Square that sells ices. Would you go walking with me Saturday afternoon?”

“I would be delighted to, Ryan.”

“Excellent.” He consulted his pocket watch. “And now, ladies, I must be off.” He stood, beckoning their waiter. “How much for the table?”

Isabel caught his arm. “No. I forbid you to pay for us—”

“Already done.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Until Saturday. Mrs. Fairchild.” He bowed handsomely.

“Major.”

As he sauntered off, Sophie gripped her hand. “You like him. I must say I liked him too.”

“Ryan is very charming,” Isabel agreed, while her thoughts centered on Ashby. If his self-imposed seclusion had something to do with Will, why did he kick her out of his house?

“Pity he is in Queer Street.”

Isabel smiled at the Frenchwoman’s mastery of English cant. One would think she grew up on the streets of London. “What makes you think he’s penniless?”

“When a man needs a wife to quit the army…” Sophie tsk-tsked. “As I said, I like him, and obviously he likes you, but I’d be on my guard, Izzy. That man is hunting for an heiress.”

“He can’t be all that hard for currency if he paid for our luncheon.”

“A clever predator never allows a lady to pay for anything until after the wedding.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Isabel mused. “You have a better nose for this sort of thing than I do, but I daresay, if pushed to the altar, Ryan would make the least offending choice of groom.”

Sophie’s dark brown eyes twinkled naughtily. “On that, chérie, we are in agreement.”

“Home, Jackson,” Isabel told her coachman after dropping Sophie off at Lord and Lady Maitland’s town house. Unlike Chilton, who terrorized poor Iris and forever brandished her lack of fortune and family over her head like the sword of Damocles, Sophie’s in-laws were kind and affectionate and treated her as a queen, regardless of Sophie’s checkered Parisian past. They were always happy to look after their five-year-old grandson, Jerome, and never pried into his mother’s private affairs. Isabel’s mother made a career of prying into her daughter’s affairs.

The dappled afternoon sun danced on her cheek as the carriage trundled through Mayfair. Tapping the leather brief containing their bill proposal on her knees, Isabel wondered when and how she would call on Ashby again. With the Season at its peak and her charity taking up every spare minute of her time, she wasn’t likely to do so anytime soon. Unless…

“Jackson,” Isabel leaned out the carriage window at a busy intersection, “please take me to Lancaster House on Park Lane.”

“Yes, Miss Aubrey.” The coachman didn’t sound perturbed in the least that a block away from Seven Dover Street they were changing direction, or that she was heading to parts unknown without her lady’s maid. Their household staff was split into two camps: those in cahoots with her mother’s spy, Norris, and those who despised the old tyrant and rejoiced in caballing behind his back. Since Jackson was listed in the second camp, she could count on his discretion.

She wiped her clammy hands on her pink muslin day gown and pulled on her kid gloves. Delicious nervousness turned her stomach. What wickedness possessed her! To call on a single gentleman twice in one week, uninvited, unchaperoned…But then, Ashby had always awakened the brazen streak in her. She hoped she looked presentable. Not that she had any illusions about Ashby. He wouldn’t notice her if she pranced naked before him—now where did this outrageous thought spring from? She didn’t dare probe too deeply or she might lose her nerve altogether. She took a deep breath and concentrated on what she would say to him.

“Lancaster House,” Jackson announced from his perch. His son, the footman, opened the door and flipped open the steps. He took her shaky hand and helped her down.

Arching her spine, Isabel made herself walk instead of run up to the imposing facade and thumped the brass knocker against the door. Phipps appeared in the threshold. “Miss Aubrey!”

“Kindly inform his lordship that he has a visitor,” she said, straight-faced.

Phipps dithered for a moment before a resolute gleam etched his eyes. He stepped back to let her pass and closed the door. “Right this way, if you please.” He took the lead, crossing the magnificent foyer and ushering her deeper inside the house.

She took that as a promising sign. Yesterday she’d only been permitted in the front sitting room. She was definitely moving up in the world. He stopped outside a door and bade her wait. When he reemerged, shutting the door behind him, Isabel nearly wept, but instead of showing her out, he smoothed the bulge in his breast pocket that hadn’t been there before and marched on.

They arrived at a wood and iron door. He opened it to reveal a narrow flight of stone steps; it only led downward. She followed mutedly, but when she became aware of steady metallic thumping that grew louder the deeper they descended, she asked. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the wine cellar.”

Isabel was horrified. “Lord Ashby spends his days in the wine cellar?”

“Not as often as he used to. The first six months, it was impossible to draw him out. Now he only spends the better part of his nights there.”

Poor Ashby, Isabel thought; drowning his despair in one bottle after another. Thank God she had the sense to come back despite his hostile dismissal.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, a dim little room, a wine cellar, similar to the one they had in Seven Dover Street. There was no sign of Ashby. “Miss Aubrey, I must beg you to wait again.” Phipps disappeared behind one of the bottle racks. The thumping stopped.

“What?” She heard Ashby’s deep, short-tempered voice reverberating inside.

“My lord, you have a visitor.”

“Get rid of him.” Something hard hit the floor.

“It’s Miss Aubrey, my lord.”

She heard a steady rasping noise. Unable to contain her curiosity, she tiptoed past the bottle rack and peeked through the arched opening. A cavernous chamber sprawled before her, aglow with candlelight in various heights and niches. Although outside the sun had yet to set, inside this chamber night ruled. The walls were stacked with wine bottles up to the vaulted ceiling. Sawdust coated the floor. Sculptures, furniture, and raw timber occupied most of the space. She stretched her neck and saw long, sinewy legs clad in glove-tight breeches braced apart at a work table.

He circled the table to stand facing her. “Did she say why she was here?”

“No, my lord, she didn’t, but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say it had something to do with the package you sent her.”

Goodness. Ashby was naked from the waist up. Powerful shoulders topped thickly corded arms. His broad chest tapered to a wasp, muscle-winged waist. Hard sinew undulated in perfect symmetry across a flat abdomen. Perspiration covered the hairless skin in a fine glistening sheen.

She was highly disappointed that his overlong hair veiled his features as he forcefully filed a slab of timber smooth. Undeterred, her eyes caressed his beautiful body, entranced by the play of muscles beneath the smooth, burnished skin. She had seen sturdy stack boys shirtless, but none of them looked like that—a masterpiece of masculine brawn carved in marble-like flesh.

What a strange and wonderful creature he was, Isabel thought. The rich and powerful earl, who instead of hiding behind his lofty title at home had ridden against Napoleon without the slightest regard for his personal safety, was a carpenter. That was how he filled his lonely hours, by creating beautiful things—like Vulcan, the suffering, deformed god of craftsmanship.

“Did she come by herself?” Ashby demanded to know.

“Yes, my lord, I believe she did. She has a carriage waiting.” Phipps reached inside his breast pocket and produced the black satin mask. He set it in front of his master.

A moment passed. “Show her in.”

She jumped back, loath to be caught snooping. She wrung her hands while pretending to examine the dim antechamber. Phipps materialized. “You may go in now, Miss Aubrey.”

Tension knotting her nerve-endings, she drew in a steeling breath and walked in. Her gaze fell on a shapeless stump covered with an old sheet. Carpentry tools were scattered around it.

“Don’t touch anything,” a voice commanded.

She spotted Ashby’s tall back bending over a dresser near the far wall. An antiquated, four-poster bed stood there, draped with a red counterpane. Water splashed in a sink. He washed his face, then plowed his fingers through his thick, dark mane, smoothing it back past his nape. He reached for a creased shirt and dried his face. The next object he reached for was the black mask. He tied it around his head and spun around to face her in all his semi-nude glory.

She snapped her jaw shut. “Lord Ashby.” She curtsied, curbing the impulse to lick her lips. It galled her how instead of outgrowing it, her fascination for him had evolved into something far more disturbing and physical. “I apologize for—” Her breath caught as he swabbed his sculpted, glistening chest with the crushed shirt. She never imagined men could look so…delectable.

“Why are you here?” His voice summoned her gaze back to his head.

She forced herself to concentrate. “My lord, I…I came to—”

“Ashby,” he insisted, his green eyes glittering against the black satin. “I hear enough ‘my lord’ to make me gag.” He tossed the crumpled shirt aside and started in her direction, his boot heels pounding along the stone-flagged floor. “Didn’t I specifically tell you never to return?”

She bit her lip. “I came to thank you in person for your impossibly generous donation.”

“You’re welcome, but you could have sent a thank-you note.”

“You could have sent a smaller sum.” She looked around her, awestruck by the exquisite carvings littering the chamber. He wasn’t merely a carpenter; he was an artist. “I liked the box even better,” she confessed in a throaty voice she hardly recognized. “Did you make it yourself?”

He halted right in front of her, his raw masculinity as compelling as it was daunting. His sweetish, musky scent instantly reminded her of their brief kiss on the bench. Everything came back to her: his quickly drawn breath, his warm, supple lips molded to hers, and then his tongue flicking shockingly, erotically at hers, branding her with his whiskey-spiced taste forever.

A sharp tremor shot through her body. She wanted to kiss him again, and touch him, very badly, but she didn’t dare risk another rejection.

His eyes darkened. “Christ, Isabel! Why won’t you let sleeping dogs lie?” he growled, as though he had read her mind. “Nothing good will come of this. Believe me.”

She didn’t want to hear that. “I need to know—what made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t change my mind. You solicited active participation. I gave you money.”

“Still, you were quite adamant the—”

“The message on your card was effective,” he bit out grudgingly. “You are a formidable sharpshooter, Isabel Aubrey. When you take aim, you hit your mark at its softest spot each time.”

“I apologize. My intention was—”

“Don’t apologize to me. Ever. God knows I’ve a lot more I ought to apologize to you for.”

She flushed to the roots of her hair. He was alluding to that infernal kiss he had scorned. Damn him. “I came to convince you to join our cause.” She was all businesslike from then on. “I know you said you didn’t attend Parliament or move in Society anymore, but I would greatly appreciate your commentary on this.” She offered him the leather brief.

“What’s this?” He took the brief and quickly thumbed through it.

“Our bill proposal. I told you about it. I haven’t had a chance to read it myself yet, but—”

“What makes you think I know anything about legislation?” He skimmed the pages.

“In Will’s words—you are the man with the special skills.” She smiled challengingly.

“My skills are many and varied, but you already have my answer.” He returned the file.

Blast. “There is something else. We need the army’s lists.”

“Go up to my library.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve the army lists, the navy lists…”

“You don’t seem to understand. We need the lists of casualties, including terms of service, ranks, salaries, and other pertinent details to prepare an estimate of the cost the new bill should entail. You’re the only person I know who might have access to army personnel files.”

“Army personnel files? That’s classified information! No one would give you those files.”

She felt like stomping her foot. On his. “How in blazes is a civic-minded person expected to improve anything in this country?”

“You’re not. Which is why we have Lords and Commons and a monarch.”

She eyed him irately. “You won’t lift a finger to help me?”

“My contribution to your cause ended with the five thousand pounds donation.” When she fell silent, duly chastised, he sauntered to a side table. He uncorked a semi-full wine bottle and poured red wine into two glasses. “Look, I’ve had my crusade,” he explained. “Now all I want is to enjoy my private existence, despite its drawbacks.” He returned to put a wineglass in her hand and knocked his glass against hers. “Cheers.”

They drank in silence, sustaining eye-contact. Did he find the experience as intimate and titillating as she did, she wondered as the flavorsome elixir glided down her throat. Long ago she would have sold her soul to the Devil to share such a moment with him. Say something! “What sort of wine is this? Not Madeira, I daresay.” Delicately she licked a red drop off her lip.

Her subtle gesture riveted him. “Madeira is for debutantes and well-manicured dandies.”

Intrigued, she took another sip. “You may think me silly, but this wine is…”

“Multifaceted? Like a person.” He nodded. He whirled the remaining wine in his glass and inhaled the fumes. “It’s Navarrese. Fruity, provocative, smooth, and full of hidden meaning…I bought dozens of cases in Spain and had them shipped home.”

“Listening to you, I feel so green and uninformed,” she confessed, blushing.

“Don’t. It makes me feel old and jaded.” He tipped his head back, emptying his glass.

The sight of a red drop gliding down his bare throat enticed her beyond reason. She shook herself. “What sort of drawbacks do you find in solitude?”

“Several.”

Perhaps that was the key. If she knew what he missed most in life, she could offer to fulfill this void, get closer to him, and thus keep him in her life. “Name one.”

“Celibacy.”

She sputtered her wine.

A wicked glow spread in his sea green irises. “You asked.”

Perhaps he might not be as unresponsive as she had assumed if she undressed before him, but there would be no victory in that. According to her knowledgeable friend, Sophie, a man who desired women and a man who desired a woman were two very different beasts. “I had luncheon with one of your former officers today,” she mentioned casually, returning sideways to her old topic. “Ryan Macalister. He’s a major now. Even he thought you’d make the best sponsor to our cause, and I haven’t told him anything—”

“Is he courting you?”

His harsh tone startled her. “What if he is?”

“You don’t want Macalister, Isabel. Stay away from him.” He set his empty glass aside.

“My lord, I do not appreciate vague hints and arbitrary commands.”

He stared at her. “You want a reason? Fine. Ryan Macalister will break your heart.”

Was he serious? Didn’t he have an inkling of what he had done to her heart? Of course not. Charming rakes never did, particularly when the hearts they crushed were too young to be of any import. Suppressing her old resentment, she dissembled, “I had no idea you predicted futures, my lord. How very clever of you.”

He took a step toward her. “I mean it, Izzy. Stay away from Macalister. He’s not for you.”

He almost sounded jealous, which didn’t make sense. Looking up into his eyes, she asked, “Are you warning me off because he is penniless?” All she got in return was a fierce, unreadable glower. She set her empty glass next to his. “Lord Ashby, as someone whom I once considered as dear as an older brother, I beg you to divulge any information that may prove vital to my future happiness.”

“Damn it, Isabel! I am not your brother!” he growled at her.

She flinched. “No, of course not. Y-You don’t owe me anything.”

He let out a ragged sigh that made his magnificent chest rise and fall. “Go home. Don’t be foolish. I could never take Will’s place in your life.”

“I know that. I’m not asking you to. I’m not a child anymore, Ashby. Nor am I foolish.”

His gaze flitted over her, swift yet thorough, unlike the young bucks who conducted long discussions with her bosom. “Indeed, you are not a child, which makes it even more dangerous.”

Hope leaped in her breast. She searched his brilliant eyes. “Why is it dangerous?”

He reached out and ran his rough knuckles along her cheek. “Because if anyone should see you coming in or out of my house,” he breathed, “you’ll have a devil of a time facing the gossip. You are a lovely young woman, Isabel. It would be a great pity if your future were to be ruined.”

Her hope crumbled to dust. He still didn’t want anything to do with her, even though he was injured and alone and felt compelled to wear a mask. She should have long since abandoned any hope of winning his affections. Knowing that, however, she still craved his friendship. “You are concerned for my reputation. How good of you. Just like an older brother.”

This time he didn’t take the bait. “Goodbye, Miss Aubrey.” He marched past her, leaving her alone in the windowless cellar. Her throat constricted, and she hastened upstairs for air.