Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (10 page)

“A drink?” Sutcliffe glanced his way. “You think we ought to have a drink, Everett? Not a bad idea. Not at all.” Motioning for the footman, he had his glass refilled with the last of the absinthe. “How about you, Mrs. Flowers? Any children?”

Joss watched with some amusement as Augusta looked around for a reply, then finally recollected that she was Mrs. Flowers. “Me? Oh, goodness, no.” Her giggle rang like a sleigh bell. “I wasn't married long at all.”

Her gaze dropped to her plate—demurely, it seemed. Wise woman. If she met Joss's eye, he was likely to betray them both with laughter.

“Any brothers and sisters? I have five sisters.” Sutcliffe paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “That can't be right. Five? Five is far too many. Everett, how many sisters have I?”

“Six.”

“Six, right,” Sutcliffe said cheerfully. “I knew I had to frank a cursed lot of letters for them. Everett is like my own brain walking about in a different body. Saves me the trouble of remembering things.”

Now it was Joss's turn to regard his china plate with great interest. Were he to catch Augusta's gaze, he would either snort with laughter or roll his eyes until they popped from their sockets. An extended amount of time in his cousin's company inspired both reactions, sometimes at once.

“You are fortunate to hail from a large family, my lord.” The sugary voice of Mrs. Flowers dissolved into Augusta's own lower tones. “I was the only child of my parents, though they always hoped for more.”

“Nonsense! They must have been delighted with you. How could anyone hope for more?”

Rare was the individual who could remain immune to Sutcliffe long when he set out to charm. Augusta returned the baron's dazzling smile, but Joss noticed that Lady Tallant had begun to droop. Under the table, he kicked Sutcliffe and shot him a fierce unspoken message:
Turn
the
subject.

“Besides which,” the baron added smoothly, “sometimes children turn out in the oddest ways. They were lucky with you, but another son or daughter could have turned out rotten. Why, Everett was his mother's only child, and a good thing, too. Not because he was rotten, but because—well, it was for the best.”

Did he refer to the poverty of Joss's mother, or the bad blood of his drunken, absent father? Joss cleared his throat. “A child's temperament does not always reflect his upbringing.”

“Of course it doesn't,” Sutcliffe agreed. “If it did, you'd have finished your absinthe. Eh?”

This was evidently meant as a hilarious jest—though if parsed, it reflected as much on Sutcliffe's drinking as it did on Joss's heritage.

Sutcliffe never seemed to realize that the joke could be on him. Life was, in itself, joke enough.

Joss forced a smile. He always made himself smile when Sutcliffe poked at the bruises of his birth, heedless of their shared ancestry. There was no chance Sutcliffe would ever stop; it wasn't in his upbringing to think Joss could be offended, especially by the truth. So Joss had long ago decided to act as though he wasn't bothered a bit.

Sometimes it worked. Tonight, with Lady Tallant putting on a brave face and Augusta wearing a puzzled one, the heedlessness rankled.

So he drank his wine under Sutcliffe's approving eye, and looked forward to the date when his eternal penance would end.

When the dinner guests bade the women farewell, Augusta watched them descend the steps of Emily's Queen Square house. Ducking into the shadow of the stone-trimmed doorway, she peered after them as the two tall figures made their way down the pavement to the west.

The afternoon had grown late, and the sun was hanging low in the blue-gray sky. Lord Sutcliffe's velvet coat caught the light in burnished flicks of purple each time he gesticulated broadly. At his side, Joss's back was stern and broad, his strides measured. Once, he drew his cousin away from the muddy street. At the foot of the steps to the next house, he doffed his hat, then the men parted.

As Joss turned back the way he had come, Augusta pressed herself against the black front door. With a single step, a single press of the door handle, she could be back in the house. Resting or changing her gown for the theater or chatting with Emily, who had been quiet for the remainder of the meal.

She could do any of those things. She
should
do all of them.

But instead, she stepped forward. “Mr. Everett.”

Joss squinted below the brim of his hat, then again tipped it. “Mrs. Flowers. Did we leave something behind?”

“No.” She descended the stone steps, hugging herself tightly. Her thin cotton gown was no barrier to the breeze—not that furs and cloaks and gloves seemed ever to warm her. “May I be quite frank with you?”

“Of course you may. Though perhaps you should employ your frankness indoors on such a chilly day.”

“It doesn't matter; I'm always cold. Let us go to the mews to talk.” Behind the long row of houses, Bath's wealthy kept their carriages and horses. Augusta enjoyed walking the mews, out from under the eyes of household servants. If one took a few carrots or apples, the horses would stretch out their beautiful heads for a treat, soft muzzles like velvet as they lipped the food from her hand.

Today she had nothing with her. She hadn't even worn sturdy boots, and her slippers were sure to be ruined—if not by mud, by coarse straw and droppings. Not that it mattered. The heiress to Meredith Beauty could always buy more.

Joss regarded her with some skepticism, then fell into step beside her. Once more he turned his steps westward, passing the doorway to Lord Sutcliffe's house without a sideways glance. “Even so. By now, you must be even colder than usual,” he said. “Here.”

Before she could stop him, he shrugged free of his coat and dropped the heavy garment on her shoulders. Jaw set, he tugged at the lapels until they met just below her chin. “Hold fast, now.”

So quickly and efficiently did he disrobe, enfold her, and stride on that Augusta could only trot after him, her mouth struggling to shape some appropriate reply.

You
shouldn't have
was perfectly true, for a gentleman ought never to appear in his shirtsleeves in public. As he had drawn a few steps ahead, she could see Joss's sleeves rippling in the breeze, the thin cotton outlining the hard planes of his forearm. His black waistcoat, dark breeches, and tall boots framed his figure, capable and swift, stark against the silvery sky.

Augusta clutched tightly at the lapels of the coat, letting the rough fabric scratch at the bare skin of her hands and arms. Despite the breeze, she caught the scent of sandalwood from the fabric, and she breathed in deeply. “Thank you.”

His steps slowed, though he did not turn. “You're quite welcome” was tossed over his shoulder, though the tone of it sounded more like
I
had
to, because if you freeze out here and expire, I will probably be blamed.

Joss paused at the end of the square's long facade. Turning toward Augusta, he said, “Will this spot do for whatever you would like to tell me? You need not ruin your slippers along with your health.”

“The latter is fine, and the former is of no concern to me.” And she led him through a gap to the mews serving the houses.

Compared to the aggressive grandeur of the facade, the mews seemed almost tumbledown. The first stables had been built of sturdy stone with tile roofs, but offshoots and lean-tos and alcoves had been added over time, a mixture of brick and wood. Rain barrels caught the constant drip from drizzle-damp eaves. Hay lay in great piles under shelter, and the smell of mucked-out stalls and the earthy scent of horses overlaid the sandalwood Augusta had just been breathing. Most of Bath society rested at this hour, and the streets were quieter than usual. In the mews, animal whickers and the occasional voice of a groom made a low counterpoint to the breath of the wind.

“What is this all about, then?” Joss looked down at Augusta. “You
did
once promise me not to engage in hen-witted espionage capers. Now I am forced to strip to my shirtsleeves to keep you from catching a dreadful chill. Your manner indicated some urgency, and your level of dress—or undress—even more so.”

“I can always tell,” Augusta replied, “when you are getting ready to say something clever and cutting to me, because one of your brows shoots up. And though I do thank you for the loan of your coat, you offered it; I did not request it.
And
I would greatly appreciate you waiting until I say something horrid before you are horrid to me.”

He poked at his wayward brow, frowning. “Ah, but then you'd always have the advantage.”

She settled deeper into the warm wool of his coat. “Must someone always have the advantage?”

“Only someone who has always had the advantage would ask that question.”

“I'll be brief, then, so as not to offend your ears with excessive privilege. Here is what I wanted to say. Thank you for dining with us today. Thank you even more for taking trouble to keep the secret of Mrs. Flowers. And I'm sorry your cousin isn't more cordial to you.”

She tugged the coat off and held it out to him. “That's all. Good day to you.”

He didn't reach out his hand; instead, he tilted down his chin and fixed her with his dark eyes. “Why do you say such a thing about Lord Sutcliffe? All the world finds him pleasant.”

Her arm tiring, she pulled it back and folded the coat into a bundle. The sharp, smoke-sweet hint of sandalwood caught her again, scattering her thoughts for a moment before she managed a reply. “He was pleasant, yes. Although he asked so many questions about family, he never referred to you as his cousin. It surprised me, especially since you work with him daily.”

“Ah. Well. A bit of distance can sometimes do as much good as a medicinal drink.” His mouth twisted.

“Or medicinal grasses?”

“Or those, yes. Lord Sutcliffe is concerned with his health,” Joss said.

“But not with yours?”

Joss pulled off his hat and worked the brim with his gloved fingers. Short-cropped and slightly curling, his hair ruffled in the breeze. “It's not his job to worry about me. It's my job to worry about him.”

As an orphan and only child, the idea of a family member who worried over her was appealing. “You must be important to him, then.”

“Oh, probably. But in a way no more meaningful than a child thinking it needs a sweet or a boat. I'm the person who helps him achieve his whims. Anyone else could become as efficient in time; I simply have the advantage of long practice.”

He spoke with a flat precision that seemed to press Augusta down. More than once, he had hinted at a fraught relationship with his cousin and employer, though his words had danced by, glanced off whatever mirrored surface Augusta had sought to become that day. “I'm sorry, Joss. I did not realize that was the case.”

“I did not want you to realize. Damnable pride, you know. Though I wouldn't have minded if you asked.” He looked up at the sharp line of the house roofs looming behind the mews. “You never asked.”

“I was trying to be kind. I didn't want to ask anything more of you than you wanted to give.”

“Then why, when we first met in the assembly rooms, did you not simply believe I would keep your secrets and walk away?”

The main reason, of course, was that she couldn't bring herself to. She had not dared trust him, but she also hadn't wanted to leave him. His familiarity was a relief, an escape into the honesty she had begun to crave.

Yet Mrs. Flowers was supposed to be the escape. Augusta was farther than ever from slaking her grief, from finding the peace she sought.

She clutched his coat closer, a wall of masculine cloth and scent that made her throat dry, her nipples as tight from eagerness as from cold. “I would have walked away if I could.”

“I see,” he said quietly. And she wondered just how much he saw.

“Just—just for tonight,” she stammered, “you could leave Lord Sutcliffe behind. Come to the theater with Lady Tallant and me.”

He lifted both brows. Was he about to let fly
two
cutting and clever remarks? Augusta parried. “Only for business, of course. The countess has taken a box with no view of the stage at all, but one can spy on the entire audience without being seen. Perhaps you might even spot another person from your list.”

“
Your
list,” Joss corrected, donning his hat again. “Naturally I assumed the invitation was for business, my dear fake widow. Alas, I cannot accept for other reasons of business. This evening I am to meet with your Lord Chatfield. Of a sudden, I require the aid of a man who knows things more than the commerce of a man who buys things.”

“He's not
my
Lord Chatfield.” In a slide of disappointment, Augusta fumbled for words. “That is—he buys things, too. And he knows things. So you might be able to sell things and learn things.”

Surely no one had ever babbled out the word
things
so often in a single sentence. Again, she held out his coat, hoping she would feel less muddled without the distraction of the sandalwood scent, the dark wool rubbing at her arms.

This time he accepted the coat from her, though he only held it in a folded bundle as she had. “If you've no great desire to attend the theater, would you care to come with me this evening when I call upon Lord Chatfield? It might do you good to speak to someone else who knows Miss Meredith.”

“No. I couldn't.” She shook her head, folding her bare arms tightly under her breasts. Let him make a joke about her
dockyard
. Let him.

But he did not; his eyes looked tired. “Why could you not? What would be so terrible if a man who
knows
things
learns you are going under a false name? People who
know
things
are generally discreet.” He paused. “Or they are blackmailers. One or the other.”

“No, I'm sure he's not a blackmailer. I—he—” Augusta pressed her lips together. “I don't know. I think—he would be disappointed to know I had set aside my parents' name. He knew them quite well, you see.”

These last words brought the press of tears to her eyes, but she held them back. After the grinding smiling, dinner conversation—too much worry over Emily, too many secrets to keep—the boulder of grief was unsteady. She could not let it rock anymore; she could not bear the idea of another fall, another grueling tug upward.

But a few images flitted into her mind, summoned by the mention of her family. Her mother's hair, just as red as Augusta's, though in the last year of her life, it had become threaded with gray strands. Her father—not quite as tall as her mother—had the sort of laugh that made everyone around him happier. His hair was thin, his middle thick, his eyes wistful. How they had wanted a large family.

If they'd had one, Augusta would never have been left alone.

And maybe she would have been wiser, too. With more people to love her, surely she would have been less desperate to dive into the arms of a liar like Colin Hawford.

Joss shook out his coat, holding it up as though fitting it to an invisible companion. “What do you fear? That Chatfield will fault you for lying about your name? Or that he would divine the scandalous reason why?”

“Yes,” she said numbly. “Yes, all of it.”

His hands sank, the coat brushing the muddy straw beneath their feet. “I already know those things, yet I can tolerate your presence.”

For the first time all day, her smile felt real. Instead of folding her face into false lines, it slipped cleanly over her features. A little frisson ran through her body, but it didn't feel cold. “That was rather kind. Did you mean it to be so?”

“Did you think it was? Dear me. It wasn't even that kind. I ought to be more aggressive with my polite comments.” The smile he returned to her looked a little…shy.

Shy? Truly? But so it appeared; his fine mouth curved gently, his deep, black-lashed eyes caught her gaze, then flicked away. He picked up his coat to a safe height and brushed at its hem, then folded it up again. It seemed he would not wear it if she would not.

“I'm not going to make you another indecent proposition,” Augusta said. “I've too much pride for that.”

She had to say it, hoping to convince herself—because more and more often, she thought of touching his skin, tracing the hard lines of his features, clutching him close—close enough to make her forget, close enough to chase away everything dark.

But he could not do so, she knew, for he was too much like her. He had lost his parents; he had tried to win the heart of a cold lover. He kept his cousin's secrets, and a man who kept secrets knew how hard it was to force them down.

“I am glad you have too much pride,” Joss said. “Because I've too much pride to take anything from you.” He drew closer, no more than a hairbreadth away, and added, “I should like to give you something, though.”

He didn't ask if she would permit that, or she might have forced herself to skitter away before he could bend his head to hers. Flirtation was about control, and lust about its loss—and oh, this was lust; she practically shivered with it, with wanting to close the distance between them. When her lips parted, her breath turned to frost in the air.