Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (11 page)

He didn't kiss her right away. Instead, he brushed back a fallen lock of her hair, and she realized she had run outside with no bonnet as well as no cloak. Then he wrapped the coat around her, almost holding her in an embrace as he caught up its edges.

“My dear fake widow,” he murmured, and brushed her lips with his. Just a sweet flutter, almost like a chance encounter between mouths. Light and lovely and over in an instant.

It was little enough; it was far too much. All the hesitancy in her crumbled, and she grabbed for him, clutching at his shoulders, stretching up to her toes to crush her mouth against his with a graceless clash. With such force did she fling herself that he stumbled back, almost losing his balance and his grip on the coat. When he caught his footing, she was pressed heavily against his chest before stumbling back. His fists, still gripping the coat around her, settled between her breasts, and she choked to hold back a little moan.

“My dear
God
,” he murmured against her lips. “I require more arms.” His hands held her tight within the coat. Up and down, he rolled his balled fists gently, seeking the curve of her breasts through the heavy fabric. “Have I truly never been kind to you? Are you quite sure I have never complimented your appearance?”

“I don't know,” Augusta said, letting her eyes fall shut. “I don't remember anything right now.”

Thank
God
—it was the oblivion she had hoped for, though she knew it would be fleeting. Again, he brushed her mouth with his, gently, yet she could feel the coiled tension in his hands. He was hungry, he was eager, he was fighting with himself for control.

She began to thaw at the edges; her fingers and toes, though ungloved and shod in thin slippers, were the first freed from ice. Nothing could warm her enough to reach her heart—but to have her hands back, her feet back, was more than she had felt in almost two years. With her hands no longer frozen, she could reach out for him; with her feet no longer numb, she could step toward him.

And then there was no distance between them, nothing at all, as her hands fought free from the cloaking coat and encircled his hard waist. He moaned and opened his mouth to hers, brushing her tongue with his own, breathing her in. She breathed him in too, drinking and tasting him. He was wine-sweet and strong, and so determined to make her warm. If they had enough time, he could melt more of her with the heat of his hands. His lips. The whole breadth and length of his body. Already, her core was damp with desire.

A shrill whistle rang high through the mews, followed by applause.

Augusta's eyes snapped open. Not ten yards away in the shelter of a lean-to, a stable boy in rough work clothing grinned fit to bust his young face. “Don't let me stop ye, govs!”

Joss stepped back, chuckling. “Sorry, lad. Go to the theater if you want a show.”

He slid an arm around Augusta's shoulders in a gesture that felt more like politeness than passion, turning her in the direction from which they'd come. “That was not quite what I meant to do, my dear fake widow, though I shan't apologize.”

“Nor shall I.” Augusta could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, not from embarrassment but from shock at how quickly she had forgotten herself. Where was the control she sought? What was the point of taking a lover if she ended worse off than she already was?

Joss was not a safe choice. She had known this at once. With all his pride, he would never stand for the limits she would set on a lover, nor the speed with which she intended to discard one. He was not at all what she wanted.

Yet she could not bring herself to leave the cradle of his arm. To walk away from him. She could not rely on herself to obey her own edicts, and the realization was like falling: a leap, a flight, and the inevitability of a crash.

Although as they walked back from the mews toward respectability, and he never removed his arm or his coat from around her shoulders, she felt as though she was still in flight. It was hard to remember that the crash was inevitable, or how much it had hurt each time in the past.

She wondered whether she was right about that
not
what
she
wanted
business.

Probably they passed other people who thought their appearance odd, but Augusta noticed nothing. Possibly some people even spoke to them, but she heard nothing either. She only felt, and wondered…what the devil was she doing?

When they reached the steps of Emily's house, Joss walked her up, then faced her in front of the door. Slowly, he drew his coat off her shoulders, and she felt as though he were undressing her completely. She shivered.

“Augusta,” he said quietly, “you are a worthy person. The man who made you doubt that did a terrible thing.”

She stared at him, doubting, but his eyebrows remained straight over his fixed gaze. “Oh,” she said.

“What about a ‘Thank you, Joss'?” Then he shook his head. “My dear fake widow, you still have difficulty trusting me? Another sin to lay at that fellow's feet.”

He reached past her, and for an instant she thought he was going to embrace her. Maybe kiss her again.

Rap
rap.
No, he only tapped with the brass door knocker, then stood back again. Within a few seconds, a servant had opened the door. “Mrs. Flowers, you must be frozen!”

“She won't admit to it,” Joss said. “But I think she wouldn't mind a bit of hot punch.” He caught Augusta's eye. “Medicinal, you know.”

With a wink and a tip of his hat, he turned and descended the steps, then strode—still holding his coat in his shirtsleeved arms—in the direction of his lodgings.

Huh.

Augusta let herself be tugged inside, her feet slid into clean slippers, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl. A cup of hot tea was pressed into her hand. Then she was sent upstairs to rest, the fire built up high in her bedchamber. A maid promised to return in an hour to help her dress and arrange her hair for the theater.

And still, as another door closed behind her, all she could think was:
huh.

She sat on the carpet before the fireplace and watched the flames flicker and dance.

Though Joss had kissed her as though they were ready to tumble into a bed, though he had held his coat about her shoulders with gentleness, he hadn't really flirted with her. No sweet words to entice her further. The closest he had veered to praise was to ask whether he had ever complimented her appearance—and then, contrary man, he never
had
said anything kind.

Until they parted.
You
are
a
worthy
person.

Maybe she had an incomplete idea of what constituted flirtation. Or maybe he was simply being…well…decent.

You
are
worthy
ought to be such a truism that to state it openly was foolish. Like
You
are
female
or
Your
hair
is
red
. But through years of grief and foolish choices, it had stopped feeling true. And somehow, he had seen that, and he'd told her what she wanted most in the world to believe again.

Maybe she would one day. For today, it was good to know someone else in the world thought so.

And
that
, more than any compliment he might have given her on her appearance—and almost more than his kiss—made her feel a bit warmer inside as she stretched her hands out before the fire.

Joss had been in Bath for less than a fortnight, so it was no great wonder he had not yet visited one of the hot springs that gave the city its name. But that would change today: Lord Chatfield had expressed his willingness to meet with Joss on the evening of his choice, provided that the meeting was held in a private bath. His lordship, it seemed, had a strict therapeutic regimen.

Though Joss placed little faith in the healing powers of Bath's sulfurous springs, they would certainly do the marquess no harm. Unlike some of Sutcliffe's favorite
medicinal
concoctions.

He had spent the few hours since dinner trying not to think of the incendiary kisses of Augusta Meredith. Instead, with dogged persistence, he had sifted through Sutcliffe's correspondence, attempting to plot a means of identifying the baron's blackmailer, though coming up with little. All for Sutcliffe, always.

Soon enough, Joss would be able to live for himself. And he hoped such a life would include more of Augusta Meredith, in any and many forms.

But not tonight. Tonight she was at the theater, probably dressed in silk cut to the latest fashion. And she was not even Miss Meredith: she was Mrs. Flowers when out in public, flirting and laughing to convince the men of Bath that she was all dockyard and no sense.

With a grimace, he scraped his muddy boots at the doorway to the building to which Chatfield had directed him.

It was a blocky structure of Bath stone, stretching up three stories. Wrapping around one side, Joss noticed a wooden veranda with a swooping roof. The spindly, organic shape of it looked oddly foreign, especially connected to a solidly English structure.

He liked it. It reminded him of himself, a bit foreign on an English foundation. With a wry smile lingering on his lips, he knocked on the door.

It was opened by a dark-skinned attendant in simple white robes, who bowed. “Mr. Everett? The marquess awaits you,” he said in lightly accented tones, taking Joss's hat and gloves.

Looking around the vestibule, Joss had scarcely time to collect an impression of Oriental luxury—lacy-carved wood, glossy tile, painted murals of reclining moguls—before he was shown down an equally elaborate short corridor, then into a side chamber.

Luxury, unfamiliar yet unmistakable, framed his gaze. Lamps lined the edges of the room, their flames gentle. The floor was marble, with a great stone tub to one side. In the shadowed edges of the room, Joss made out the lines of pipes. They ran vertically, feeding the tub and a smaller tank, within which lay an unfamiliar apparatus that looked like a great cloth funnel. In the humid air, the familiar scent of sandalwood overlaid the sulfurous scent of piped-in mineral water.

And in the tub, wearing a capacious bathing outfit of dark wool, reclined a man Joss presumed to be Lord Chatfield. The marquess was a robust-looking man of perhaps fifty years. His damp hair was receding at the forehead; a stern jaw and cleft chin saved his round face from softness. His eyes were closed, arms resting at the edge of the tub to balance his weight. A glossy skim of perfumed oil reflecting atop the water was, Joss guessed, the source of the sandalwood scent in the room.

“My lord, it is I. Josiah Everett.” Joss waited at a courteous distance.

“Everett.” Lord Chatfield's eyes blinked open. “Quite pleased to make your acquaintance. Are you prepared to enter into discussion at once, or do you wish to bathe first?”

“I most certainly do not wish to bathe,” Joss confirmed. Private baths often cost nearly four shillings, and in a therapeutic palace such as this, a bath was surely even farther beyond his means.

“A turn in the vaporizer, then?” The marquess indicated the odd funnel-looking device. “It does something clever with steam and Indian oils. Excellent for the circulation of the blood.”

“No.” Joss forced a polite smile. “Thank you.”

Behind Joss, the door opened. Another servant in pristine robes brought in a chair, and Joss nodded thanks before the dark-skinned man bowed his way out.

“For you, Everett,” Chatfield confirmed. “I suspected you'd wish to get on with our chat. The best time to work, after all, is while others are playing. You'll forgive me if I remain seated.”

His voice was low and resonant, calm and certain. When he spoke these words, Joss found it impossible not to sit in the chair, impossible to take offense at the odd circumstances of the meeting. “Of course. Thank you for your time, my lord.”

The elder man nodded. “So. I presume you're here because your employer, Sutcliffe, is in trouble. What is it? Gambling? Women? Unnatural lusts?”

Joss hesitated. “I do not mean to offend, my lord, but I must request your word of honor that this matter will remain discreet.”

The marquess's brows shot up; his weight shifted, sending ripples across the scented surface of the water. “You sought an appointment with me, but you do not trust me with your confidence?”

“My lord, your help was recommended by…a friend. But I'm not certain whether it is seemly to request this type of help from an acquaintance so new.”

“By your friend, you mean Augusta Meredith.” One hand rubbed at his chin. “Well. Just because she's lying about who
she
is doesn't mean she's lying about who
I
am.”

“You believe she is lying about who she is?” Lord Chatfield had said the words in such an offhand fashion. And Augusta had been so afraid of his reaction.

“I don't believe it. I know it. But you must decide how to proceed for yourself. A fellow like you is surely used to doing that.”

Joss drew his head back, trying not to bristle. “What do you mean, ‘a fellow like me'? My lord.”

The marquess leaned his head back, resting it against the marble wall behind the tub. “Grandson of a baron. Cousin to a baron. Treated like a servant, probably because of your Indian blood. It's all in Debrett's, Everett. You may think your birth a secret, but not all the world is as thick-witted as your cousin Sutcliffe.” Hooded eyes studied Joss. “You've done well for yourself.”

Grateful for the steadiness of the chair beneath him, Joss could only make an odd noise that he hoped sounded like agreement. So used was he to being overlooked, a shadow at the edge of a room, that he had forgotten his existence was easily investigated—should anyone care to.

There was no sense in regretting the inheritance laws that favored men over women, the laws that had taken the barony from his mother's line and handed it to Sutcliffe's. And truly, Joss had never wished to be a baron any more than he aspired to be king. He only wanted to be…well, he didn't know what. Not part of the
ton
; he hadn't the resources or desire for that life. But not rejected, either. Not a servant, shunted from the family lodging.

Above all, not forgotten.

“I see.” His throat felt raw. “Our mutual acquaintance was quite correct when she stated that you know things.”

“Knowing things is my preferred pastime,” said the marquess. “And the greatest part of knowing things is learning how to find information. People carry it about with them. For example, when the servant brought the chair, you acknowledged his presence. A nobleman would never do this, yet you have noble ancestry. Why, then? Is it because you recognize his blood in you, or because you believe you share his status?” He lifted a hand. “You need not answer, for the answers aren't important. Only the questions.”

Joss looked aslant at the wide tub, at the older man within it, mostly hidden beneath the lamp-glossed surface of the water. Though Chatfield was wet and seated and not fully dressed, Joss had no illusion that the marquess was at a disadvantage.

What, after all, did Joss have to lose by requesting the man's help? The secrets he held were Sutcliffe's. Maybe Lord Chatfield would help them both, but if not, at least his intercession would help Joss break free.

“As a matter of fact, my lord, there is an answer that is
very
important to me at present.” And briefly, he sketched out the baron's indiscretion, the pregnant maid. The financial strings held by the long-suffering baroness. The blackmail demands Sutcliffe could not meet without telling his wife.

“Unless, that is, I can sell off his coal to raise the money—or, even better, find the blackmailer,” Joss finished. “I've only one clue, though. As one letter was sent from London and the most recent from Bath, the person has probably arrived here recently.”

“But no seal, you say; only a gummed wafer and plain printed writing.” The marquess had sat up straighter as Joss recounted the matter. His straight brows had lifted; again, a hand rubbed at his chin. “An interesting little problem, to be sure. And we must solve it by?”

“The end of the month.”

“Twelve days, then. So be it. And how shall you pay for my services?”

Joss blinked. He hadn't considered this, though he realized he had been naïf to presume a nobleman would help a stranger out of the goodness of his heart. “If you seek information, I doubt I have any you don't already possess. But if it's a matter of mere coin, Lord Sutcliffe will pay you whatever you require, as long as it is within his means.”

Chatfield tilted his head on its thick neck. “Are you sure of that? Who wants the answer more, him or you?”

“He—if—” Words stumbled, half-formed, as Joss felt off-balance again. The answer seemed obvious—but was it? To Sutcliffe, a blackmailer was an inconvenience to be handled so his wife wouldn't restrict his financial freedom. To Joss, it
was
financial freedom, or the promise of it.

The marquess pursed his lips. “Hmm. Yes. Well, we shall sort that matter out when I have found out what you wish to know.” He turned the subject. “So, you have been spending a lot of time with Mrs. Flowers, as our young friend is calling herself these days.”

“Hmm,” Joss echoed, folding his arms.

Chatfield grinned, a flash of straight teeth in the lamplight. “A diplomatic silence. I like that. Though as it is a fact, there is nothing about which you need to be diplomatic. She
is
calling herself Mrs. Flowers, and you
have
been spending a great deal of time with her. Why?”

Joss thought of asking to which part of the statement the “why” referred, but the answers were intertwined. He picked his way carefully through a few sentences. “I have been spending time with her largely
because
she calls herself Mrs. Flowers. I was previously acquainted with her. She did not intend to be recognized, and in exchange for my reticence, she offered me help.”

“You intended to reveal her true identity, then?”

“No, I did not intend that.” The suggestion of being judged wrongly made him bristle again; the humid, warm air was causing his neck to perspire under its tight-fitting cravat. “But the blasted woman wouldn't trust me, and so she inflicted all this unrequested…
help
on me. Including the suggestion that I meet with you.”

“Hmm.”

“For which, by the way, I thank you,” Joss added gruffly.

“Hmm.”

“But the fact remains that I did not ask for it, and that she helped me because she did not trust me.”

“Hmm.”

God
. Joss shoved himself to his feet. “Thank you for your time. I won't take any more of it.”

The marquess's dark-clad figure moved like a seal: a quick splash and flop, and he was up at the front of the huge tub, elbows supporting his weight on the side. “No, no, don't leave yet. We still haven't got to the right question. Which is:
why
is she posing as a widow?”

If their conversation had been rocky before, now it was slippery as a glacier. Joss remained standing, his feet planted where he was sure of his footing. “I believe she is playing a game with herself. Because of some ill treatment by a man in the past.”

“Ah, I wondered whether that was still bothering her. A nasty business right around the time of her parents' deaths, and she's had no one to rely on since.” He spoke as blandly as though he were reading an advertisement out of
The
Times.
“The Merediths were on their way to Portsmouth for business, the first time they had left London in years. Our girl took the chance to meet with that lover of hers.”

Joss's knees requested that he take a seat at once. “She had a lover?” His voice cracked like an adolescent's on the final word. Clearing his throat, he amended, “Ah. I mean—of course. Her lover. Yes.” It was a surprise to hear, but it shouldn't be. For her to seek a lover now—out of revenge, it seemed—she must have had one in the past. Augusta Meredith was too bright to play the Mrs. Flowers game for no reason at all.

And she was too lovely, too passionate, to be resisted by a man she truly wanted.

Or so Joss presumed. From tooth-gritting experience, he knew it was difficult enough to resist her when she tossed a bland
You
would
do
in his direction.

“He was the younger son of a baronet,” Chatfield continued. “No money of his own, and no chance at a title. Likely her fortune was what he wanted, though he played the adoring suitor well enough. He dropped her after her parents died.”

Joss shook his head. “Why? If he liked her, and she was wealthy, why not propose marriage?”

The marquess shifted in the tub, shaking out his arms. “Mr. Meredith was a crafty fellow. His will stated that the trustees of his daughter's fortune had to approve her marriage should she wish to wed before the age of twenty-five.”

“And they didn't approve him?”

“I think they might have, given time. But he didn't bother trying to win them over. He dropped our young friend instead.”

Why?
Joss wanted to ask. Just…
why?
What would make a man be so foolish or so selfish?