Queen of Diamonds (26 page)

Charlie was going because Harry had promised. Parfait was going because he always went where Queenie went.

Hellen was not going. Her mother had scribbled a note that she was due back soon, “victory-us.” Valerie Pettigrew wanted to meet this John George Browne and his family before she handed over her only daughter and the hard-won dowry. Hellen agreed to stay on at the shop while Queenie was gone, but then she would move home to prepare for her wedding. Then she would move to the school, to help her new husband get ready for his students…if Jack Endicott forgave what Hellen perceived as their disloyalty.

Rourke was nearly ready to go, not that he was invited. The two deaths at the rooming house were accepted as a falling out among thieves. A fencing operation was shut down, jewels recovered, a commendation went into his file and a tidy sum into his bank account. The Runner's hand was healed enough. His bull-doggedness was not. Whatever this journey to Carde Hall entailed, he was certain it had something to do with the missing heiress and the reward for her return. This was his case; he was going.

A letter was sent to Carde Hall in Cardington. A coach was hired. Bags were packed. Farewells were made to the store customers and Lady Jennifer.

Lady Jennifer Camden was not informed of the reason for the visit out of town, but she still had advice for her friend. “You do know that traveling alone with Lord Harking without a maid or a chaperone will create difficulties, don't you? You will not be accepted at decent inns, and you will be treated as dirt at the ones that do give you rooms. And think on this: whatever your mission, you will make a poor impression on Lord Carde and his family. No matter the gentlemen's reputations, they will protect their wives from any so-called contamination by fallen women. Carde's wife is known to be a quiet woman with country values, not a London dasher. Jack's bride is a strict schoolmarmish type. She was a teacher, you know. They will not listen to you, as Harking's mistress, if they permit you through the door at all. And they will not readily believe a woman who is considered no better than she has to be. I better go along.”

“You would come to Northampshire?”

“London grows tiresome anyway, until the start of the true Season. And perhaps I can get a glimpse of spring in the countryside. But you need not worry about making arrangements for me. I never travel without Ames, my butler.”

Queenie never traveled without her dog, but she did not think it was the same.

Neither did Harry's friend Camden. He came along too, because his sister's major domo was becoming altogether too major in her life, in his opinion. Also, there were two Endicott brothers at Carde Hall. Harry should have a friend at his side, whatever the situation.

Before they could depart, Hellen's mother returned. If they were going to the earl, she was going too. Didn't she know Queenie and Molly better than anyone else? If they were handing out reward money, she had information to give, and so she informed Madame Lescartes. And Hellen and her John George had to go along, she insisted, lest they be blamed for not speaking up—or getting up to monkey business on their own. Her girl was going to be married, with a ring and all, and nothing was going to stop Mrs. Pettigrew from protecting her baby's reputation.

They were going to be a bloody caravan, Harry swore. He'd been hoping to use the travel time to good effect, showing his betrothed—he would not consider her anything less—how comfortable they could be together, away from the world and its wearisome rules. He was going to make her love him and his lovemaking more, so she would never say no. Hell, he'd been planning on telling the innkeepers they were man and wife. Now the best he could hope for was private rooms. Damned if he would room with Camden. Or Rourke, or Charlie. Or Lady Jennifer's blasted butler.

They would have adjoining rooms, at least, if he had anything to say about it.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The first night Harry did have a private room, a tiny cubbyhole under the eaves of the mediocre inn where they stayed. The ladies were sharing the two best suites, two floors below.

Camden spent the night in the tap room, or wherever one—or perhaps two, knowing Camden—of the buxom serving wenches slept. Rourke bunked with young Charlie in the stables. Harry should have found another bed too, not that he was interested in a quick tumble, but for all the rest he got. The thin mattress in his attic room was too hard, too narrow and too short, so his feet stuck over the bottom, in the cold, because there was no fire there.

Worse, Browne in the next room snored loudly enough to make the thin walls shake. Harry wondered if he should warn Hellen, but thought she might already know, the little hoyden. The sooner those two were married, the better.

For that matter, the sooner he was married to his darling the better, too, and not just because his accommodations would improve. His temper would improve, and his outlook and his health, for surely he was suffering. No man was meant to be deprived of his senses and his sanity this way. Why, the barmaids did not even appear pretty to him, despite their inviting smiles and revealing blouses. He wanted one woman, and one woman only.

So he tossed and turned, wondering what secret she kept, what power the Earl of Carde could have, and when she would realize that none of it meant a ha'penny's worth of difference to him. He dissected every possibility, every hint he'd had, wondering what he could do to convince the woman who held his heart to give hers into his keeping.

He did not wonder where the butler slept. Some things were simply better left unexamined.

The next day, Harry hired a horse. He rode ahead of the carriages and made his own arrangements at the inn where they had chosen to spend the night, on Lady Jennifer's omniscient butler's recommendation. Money changed hands, a great deal of money. Explaining to the innkeeper and his romantically inclined wife that his friends were coming to help celebrate his betrothal, Harry ordered a festive dinner, flowing wine, and connecting bedrooms for himself and his bride-to-be.

The innkeeper winked, his wife giggled, Harry blushed like a schoolboy, but his plan worked.

The dinner was lavish and well cooked. The wine was excellent, and the mixed company was surprisingly convivial, especially after the third or fourth bottle had been opened.

No one mentioned the betrothal, thank goodness, but the innkeeper kept grinning and refilling glasses, without noticing how reserved the supposed newly affianced woman was. Harry thought his
chérie
looked anxious, her lips pinched, her knuckles white on her fork, which moved the food around on her plate instead of coming to her lips. He encouraged Camden to tell his amusing anecdotes, and Browne to describe for Mrs. Pettigrew his plans for the school. Hellen chatted about her trousseau, and Lady Jennifer discussed her latest charity project.

When Mrs. Pettigrew started yawning, Lady Jennifer started looking around for her butler, and Hellen started doing something under the table that made Browne go seven shades of scarlet, Harry suggested the ladies retire, so they could get an early start the following morning. Instead of staying with the gentlemen over port and cigars, Harry excused himself, saying he needed a good night's rest, also.

Instead he escorted the reason for this whole journey to her room—her private room, next to his.

“Please do not be so worried, my dear. We are all here for you. I am right next door.”

Queenie stood on tiptoe in the corridor outside her room and kissed his cheek. “You are truly the best friend I could ever hope for, going to all this trouble for me. I know this trek is not what you wanted. Indeed, I know that I have not given you the answers you wanted, yet you are still patient and still caring. This would be so much easier if I did not love you so much, knowing I could lose everything.”

“Have you not learned yet that I am a hard fellow to lose? Thick-headed and stubborn, that's me. I am not leaving you.”

This time she kissed his lips, in a brief, sweet joining that tasted of wine. She stepped back and through her opened door. “I wish…”

She did not finish.

“Go to sleep,
chérie
. Nothing shall bother you.”

Except him. Even as Harry watched her door close and the lock click into place, he had every intention of waiting for the others to go to bed, and then coming back through the connecting door to give more reassurance and encouragement. He did not intend to try to seduce her—unless she wished it, of course—but he fully intended to prove how compatible they were, how happy they could make each other by making the world wait outside those doors. He was patient and stubborn, but he was willing to take any advantage he could.

In his own spacious, well-appointed room, Harry undressed and washed. He did not own a nightshirt, but debated between a fresh shirt and breeches, or his robe. He chose the robe. Slippers or bare feet? Lud, he was as nervous as a debutante.

He forced himself to read an article in an agricultural magazine to pass the time for the inn to settle. Then he waited another two hours. Well, he waited another twenty minutes, but it felt like two hours.

Damnation, he should have saved the money he spent for the dinner and the private rooms.

He scratched on the connecting door. “
Chérie
?” he whispered.

There was no response, so he whispered a bit louder. Nothing.

So he turned the knob and opened the door, only to find his hopes shattered. His beloved and would-be bedmate was fast asleep in the center of an enormous, billowy, all-too-tempting mattress. The dog, curled at the foot of the bed on a soft blanket, raised his head, then, recognizing Harry, went back to sleep.

Harry stood for a moment, watching her in the glow of the low-burning fire and a lamp left on the night stand. He breathed in the floral scent of her soap, aching to join her on the bed and knowing he was too much the gentleman, damn it. He was not enough of a gentleman to leave quite yet, though.

She looked so young in her sleep, with her black curls all tousled and her face free of paint and rouge. Surprisingly, the dashing, sophisticated woman who dressed in silks and satins, in daring, revealing, seductive styles, wore a plain white flannel gown to bed. Harry could not see as much as a scrap of lace or an embroidered rosebud on the virginal nightrail, over the bedcovers. The loose gown was buttoned to the chin, with sleeves down to her wrists, so she had never been more covered, or more appealingly innocent. The viscount realized he did not even know precisely how old she was, not that it mattered.

He wanted to shout out his frustration—and not just his body's yearning. There was so much he did not know. But there would be no answers tonight, and no release either. She needed her sleep, to face whatever ordeal awaited.

Walking back to his own room felt like walking through a field of ice. Damn, he should have worn his slippers. No, the inn was warm. His soul was cold.

Oh, how he wanted to hold her—just hold her. Well, maybe not just. What would he do if she never agreed to marry him? Lud, the thought was too dismal to contemplate, yet he feared it would keep him awake all night, again.

Damn and blast, he was not interested in finding a game of cards in the public room, or a wench or a bottle. So he read another boring article about crop rotation, then got into his bed. At least the mattress was the right size, even if it was cold and lonely and as empty as his arms. Once he found a comfortable position, he would sleep well tonight, Harry thought, knowing she was safe and close.

Safe? She was being murdered in her sleep, judging from the cries that woke him an hour later.

Harry leaped out of bed, grabbed his robe and his pistol, and raced through the connecting door.

The fire still burned, the lamp was still lighted, and his beloved still slept. He looked around, not finding any intruder or threat. The dog had not stirred, making Harry wonder if he was the one having nightmares, but then she cried out again.

“Mama! Help me!”

Harry went closer to the bed, bringing the lamp nearer. Now he could see that her face was knotted in a grimace, bathed in sweat.

“Sweetings,” he whispered, not wanting to startle her. “Wake up. You are dreaming.”

“No!” she yelled, threatening to wake up the entire inn.

Lud, they'd have twenty people in here next, thinking he was the one attacking her. Realizing he would not make a convincing impression of innocence, Harry fastened the tie of his robe. “Denise, wake up.”

She tossed her head, sending tears down her cheeks.

“Queenie?”

Her eyes opened. She looked up at Harry, unafraid of him, thank goodness, but sobbed, “No one came to help me! No one came. I was falling and falling, and then I was all alone and no one came.”

“I came, sweetheart,” he said, gathering her into his arms while she cried against his nearly bare chest. “I came.”

She clung to him, wracked with terror still at the old nightmare, but taking comfort from his strength until she could stop crying and let him go.

Embarrassed, she said, “Oh, I am so sorry I disturbed your rest. But thank you for coming. I shall be all right now.”

“I am not leaving.” Harry went around lighting every candle he could find, refilling the lamp, adding more coals to the fire, all to chase away the shadows. “Never again will I leave you to be afraid like that.”

Queenie blew her nose on a handkerchief beside her bed. “It was just a silly dream I have when I am tired or worried. Perhaps I merely had too much wine at dinner.”

“Tell me.”

She did not pretend to misunderstand, and for once she thought she might feel better for sharing the oft-relived horror. Maybe it would finally go away if Harry shared the burden on his broad shoulders. She touched the silk of his robe as he sat beside her on the bed. “Oh, I am in a carriage that gets out of control and topples. I understand that falling is a common nightmare. That and being left alone and helpless.” She trembled one last time and he pulled her closer.

“But you were a child in the nightmare, calling for your mother. Yet you said you were an orphan.”

“Even orphans had mothers, once. I cannot recall mine. Perhaps I lost her in a carriage accident.”

“Lady Charlotte was in a coach that fell, with her mother.”

Queenie shook her head. “There are many carriage accidents, which is why I am so fearful of them, I suppose. But I am not that woman, Harry, as much as you might wish me to be, for then I might be a proper wife for Viscount Harking.”

“But you are Queenie Dennis? The woman they are looking for?”

She was not ready. “Queenie was blond-haired, as the lost child was. But, yes, information about Queenie Dennis is why I am going to Lord Carde, and why you will not wish to be connected to one such as I.”

“Dash it, woman, stop telling me what I will wish or not. I love you, whoever you are.”

“I am…I am Madame Denise Lescartes, a slightly scandalous, partly French dressmaker.”

Angry, Harry pulled away. How could she keep putting him off this way, feeding him rubbish and roundaboutation? When the devil was she going to trust him?

He tucked the covers around her and stood to leave. Otherwise he would be too tempted to shake her, or kiss her, reddened nose and all. She would sleep soundly, he thought. He would not, listening.

She raised one hand, palm out. “And I do love you, Harry. Please do not go.”

“Do not…?”

“Do not leave me alone tonight.”

“Sweetheart, you do not know what you are asking. I do not know if I could stay in this room much longer without climbing under those covers beside you. You infuriate me, yet you fire my blood past bearing, until I doubt my own control.”

In answer, she pulled the covers aside, making room.

Harry groaned. She wanted comforting. He wanted…everything. “I cannot promise—”

“I am not asking for your promise. Only your love tonight.”

To lie with her so she could fall asleep? He made one last attempt to save her from her own innocence. “But I am only a man.”

“The only man I have ever wanted. And will ever want.”

He was lost. She was lost. How could he refuse? He smiled. “Well, my feet are cold.”

She smiled back, with a look that was anything but innocent. “Mine are as warm as toast.”

So were her lips when they met his, as warm as melted honey, as warm as nectar in the sun. Harry's lips were burning, along with the rest of him.

“Can you feel my heart?” he asked as her hands stroked that organ, and traveled lower under his robe. He quickly stopped her hesitant exploring lest he too quickly explode. “It is hammering, thundering, pounding for you, the woman who holds it in her hand.” And soon he might be blessed to feel her hold that other organ in her soft, tender hand, but not yet. “But are you certain?”

“As certain as my poor muddled brain is about anything. No matter what happens tomorrow or the next day, I want tonight. Harry, please.”

His fingers had unbuttoned the collar of her gown, and were now reaching for her breasts, cupping then, fondling them, stirring the nipples into peaks while he murmured into her opened mouth. “So beautiful, so soft. So responsive to my touch.”

“So hurry.”

“Oh, no, not tonight. I have waited too long to rush.” Still stroking her tender skin, he asked, “Do you not realize that I have been dreaming of this night since the day I first saw you? Now I intend to savor every inch, every second.”

She was tugging at his robe, so he shrugged out of it, tossing it to the floor. The dog growled when it hit him.

Queenie laughed, then started to raise the hem of her bedgown.

Harry almost choked on the words, but he had to ask one more time, “Are you certain? There is no taking this back, no second chance if you have regrets tomorrow. I could wait until we are married, you know. It might kill me, but I can wait, as I intended. Well, half-intended.”