A Lady of Letters (14 page)

Augusta's face became a stony mask. "I should like to ask you the same question. I assume you aren't in the habit of climbing into strange houses and making off with assorted geegaws, no matter how ugly." In truth, she was just as puzzled by his presence in the study as he was by hers.

They both eyed each other warily, each seeming to wait for the other to speak. Finally the Earl gave a harried sigh. He had known she was obstinate, but he hadn't realized just how obstinate. Short of resorting to the methods she had mentioned earlier, it looked as if he had precious little hope of forcing any information out of her. So this time, he tried a compromise.

"If I give you—in broadest terms, mind you—an explanation, will you agree to do the same."

Augusta pursed her lips. "I shall consider it."

He resisted the urge to stamp his foot. He hadn't done that since he was six and hadn't yet learned to charm women in general and his nanny in particular. "Confound it, Miss Hadley. That's hardly a fair answer."

"Perhaps not, but it is the best I can do until I hear what you have to say."

He rubbed absently at his jaw. "Hell's teeth.. I suppose—"

The Earl's words were cut off by a violent shove from Augusta. He staggered backward, so that the heavy coping stone merely grazed his head. Even so, the force of the blow was enough to knock him, half dazed, to the graveled path.

Augusta quickly knelt down beside him and took his head onto her lap. "Lord Sheffield!" Her hands smoothed away the thick raven locks from his brow, revealing a nasty cut at the hairline just above his temple. "You're hurt."

His eyes fluttered open. "Yes," he muttered faintly. "I seem to be risking life and limb every time I get near you." His hand struggled to disengage one of the thorny branches of the rosebush from the lapel of his coat, which only widened the tear it had caused in the fine fabric. "Not to speak of my wardrobe. You aren't perchance in the employ of Weston, hired for the sake of increasing his trade? The fellow makes enough off of me as it is."

She had already fished a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and had it pressed up against wound. Her other arm moved around to cradle his shoulders. Although he had recovered his wits, Sheffield found himself strangely loath to remove his head from her lap.

"Really, sir, that is most ungenerous of you! I did not push that stone."

He sat up abruptly, the sudden movement causing him to wince in pain. "Son of a—" He caught himself on seeing Augusta's face quite close to his. "—of a dog," he finished lamely.

Her lips quirked. "No, what you really mean to say is goddamn son of a poxed whore."

"What?"

"I said—"

"Yes, yes, I heard what you said. What I meant was, where on earth did a gently bred female ever hear such language?"

"Why, from you, sir, when you stepped in that pile of decayed cabbage."

There was a distinct pause. "Cabbage, eh? I thought it was rhubarb." He slowly got to his feet and limped over to take a look at the fallen stone. On close inspection, it was clear the mortar had been freshly chiseled away. "Hmmm."

Augusta was leaning over his shoulder and saw the evidence of tampering as well. "Hmmm, nothing, my lord. That stone did not fall by itself." Her hand brought the handkerchief back to his forehead, which had started to bleed again. "Have you made any recent enemies that would wish you harm?"

"Well, if you were not present and accounted for... " he murmured.

She flashed him an indignant look. "I was thinking more along the lines of cuckolded husbands or jealous mistresses."

"I'm flattered by your notion of my prowess with the opposite sex, but as I have tried to tell you, perhaps you should not put quite so much faith in gossip."

She had the grace to color.

A commotion at the french doors saved her from having to make a verbal reply. Voices were raised and a number of gentlemen, as well as several ladies, stepped onto the stone terrace.

"I tell you, I heard a crash, Haverlock."

Augusta straightened and waved the crumpled handkerchief. "Over here, everyone. I'm afraid there has been a slight accident."

The group rushed en masse over to where the two of them were standing. One of the ladies shrieked while the evening's host blanched at the sight of the Earl's blood-streaked face. "Good heavens, Sheffield, what the deuce happened?"

Sheffield shot Augusta a brief warning look, then pulled a wry face. "It would seem one of the stones on your roof was loose. A gust of wind must have dislodged it."

Her face betrayed no reaction to his explanation.

Lord Haverlock sucked in his breath. "Why, you could have been serious injured!"

The Earl shrugged. "Yes, well, I suppose I was lucky. No real harm done." He brushed aside the suggestion of having a doctor summoned and refused the offer of assistance back into the ballroom. "If you would kindly send round for my carriage, I think, given my current state of appearance, I should prefer to simply leave by the garden entrance and take myself home. I've had quite enough entertainment for one night." He brushed at one of the thick smudges of dirt on his sleeve. "Good evening, gentlemen. Ah, and good evening, Miss Hadley. I thank you for your assistance."

His voice did indeed convey a note of gratitude but the look in his eyes as they held hers for the briefest instant told her things were far from settled between them.

The valet gave a violent start at the shout of laughter that came from the tub behind the screen. His employer had taken a nasty crack on the head and perhaps his wits were seriously addled. He peeked around the corner.

"Is... is everything alright, my lord?" he ventured. "Perhaps I should send one of the footmen for a doctor or—"

Sheffield let his aching body sink even deeper in to the hot, sudsy water, then waved the man away. "Don't bother, Tebbins. I haven't taken leave of my senses. Just set the decanter of brandy by my bedside and then you may retire."

The man looked unconvinced, but did as he was told.

As soon as his head disappeared, Sheffield let out another chuckle. "Goddamn son of a poxed whore," he repeated aloud. The chit was utterly, maddingly impossible! But try as he might to remain extremely angry with her, he felt a grudging admiration nudging in as well. Along with her willful obstinacy, she had displayed quick thinking and a keen power of observation. At the sight of blood, she hadn't screamed or fainted, but had handled the situation with cool aplomb. And there was no question that she possessed a sharp intelligence. She hadn't failed to put two and two together just as quickly as he did, nor had she missed his signal not to say anything about the suspicious nature of the accident. On top of all that, she seemed to appreciate the dry sort humor he liked best.

He paused for a moment in his assessment. How had he ever thought her bird-witted or boring?

Or unattractive. Somehow, those interesting hazel eyes, and graceful curves were having more and more of an unsettling effect on him every time he came in proximity of them.... Damnation! He reached for the pitcher of cold water and doused it over his head, though perhaps it was best dumped somewhere lower. He'd not let such thoughts distract him from the fact that she still had given him no explanation for her unusual nocturnal activities. It was unfortunate that his interrogation had been cut short this evening, but she wouldn't wriggle out of it quite so easily another time.

But that would have to wait for their next meeting. A more immediate concern was who had pushed the stone, and why. Another chuckle escaped the Earl's lips at the thought of her suggestions. It was remotely possible, he imagined, but not very likely. He had not been as, er, active as she seemed to think. In truth, he had not even looked at a woman since... why, since he had met her.

His lips pursed in thought. The only recent activity of his that had raised any heated reactions had been his two speeches in Parliament. People may have disagreed with his point of view, but that should hardly have been the sort of thing to get a fellow killed. The more he considered it, the more it made no sense—none of the pieces seemed to fit together. Giving up, he stood up to towel off, then pulled on his heavy silk dressing gown.

But somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that Miss Hadley and the papers she had stuffed down her shirt were key parts of the puzzle.

"Hell and Damnation, my friend. Forgive my strong language but it is deucedly difficult trying to help you if you will not tell me all the facts! I implore you to take me into your confidences—surely I have shown that I may trusted. I feel I am close to making an important discovery that will greatly aid your endeavor, but I must know more in order to proceed."

Hah! thought Augusta with a twitch of her lips. If Tinder considered those rather tame words worthy of apology he had obviously never come in contact with the Earl of Sheffield! Then the expression of wry humor faded as she considered his request. It was ticklish dilemma. On one hand, he had certainly proven both his loyalty and his practical skills by tracking down the vital information she had needed. On the other, she still feared exposing him to danger. It was all very well for a tall, lean, powerfully built gentleman like Sheffield to suffer a few cuts and bruises, but in all likelihood her friend was not cut from the same cloth as the Earl.

Few men were.

Another faint smile, this one more wistful than amused, flitted across her features on remembering the feel of those broad, muscled shoulders against her bare arms. The heat from those chiseled planes had seared her, even through the layers of linen and wool. She could even recall the exact shade of his eyes—a blue the color of the sky at twilight—and every intriguing curve of those sculpted lips, fascinating to look at even when they were busy mouthing some unflattering comment at her.

She squirmed in her chair. Really, the nerve of the man, to imply that she was any more at fault than he was for the injuries he had suffered in their earlier encounters. At least he had admitted she could not possibly be blamed for this latest assault on his person.

That gave her pause for thought. But who could? Despite her comment to the contrary, she, too, doubted any affair of the heart—or other anatomical part—had prompted an attempt on the Earl's life. And there was no doubt that the stone had been launched with lethal intent. The question was why.

A sharp rap at the door of her study interrupted her train of thought. She pulled a face, then quickly tucked the letter into her desk, realizing with a start that she was still undecided as to how to answer it.

"Augusta!" Her mother came in without waiting for a reply to her knock. "You have a caller. A gentleman caller."

Augusta's face took on a guarded expression

"Lord Sheffield wonders if he might be allowed to take you for a drive in the park."

"I'm busy. Tell him to come back some other time."

Her mother's mouth began to work but it was several moments before any words came out. "Perhaps you did not hear me correctly. I said, the Earl of Sheffield wants to take you up with him in his high perch phaeton and join the rest of the ton in promenading in the park. Surely you would not be so willful as to refuse such an honor and blight your dear sister's chance of making a splendid match this Season?"