Sweet as the Devil (13 page)

Jamie frowned. “And if I said no?”

“A gentleman would respect your wishes. However,” Oz lazily replied, “I’m not a gentleman, I’m a nobleman.”

As Jamie shifted in his stance, Fitz quickly held up his hand. “Please, not here. We can discuss this in the library.”

The library at Groveland House was world renowned, much of the collection predating the Palladian mansion, and as the group entered the large chamber, the scent of history and old leather bindings pervaded the air. The jewel of the collection gleamed atop its carved pedestal in the center of the room, the eighth-century depiction of the Annunciation in the Lindisfarne Gospel lit from above. The gold leaf painstakingly applied by monks to the glory of God fairly glowed in the subdued light and gave everyone momentary pause.

“If the ladies would care to sit near the windows,” Fitz said, breaking the silence, “I’ll pour drinks for anyone who wishes.”

With the circumstances anything but social, everyone demurred. Once the ladies were seated and the men were standing with the windows to their back, Fitz called on Jamie. “You have the floor, Blackwood. Don’t scowl, Sofie. He’ll be less—”

“Don’t you dare say less emotional,” Sofia muttered.

“I was going to say Blackwood will be less likely to overlook the details. Apparently there’s some problem. You’ve not been yourself since you returned from your interview with Ernst. Obviously, something’s wrong.”

“If I may,” Jamie said with time an issue. He briefly and emotionlessly explained the reasons that had brought him to London and Groveland House. “So you see, Prince Ernst and Miss Eastleigh must be protected until Von Welden is no longer a threat. And the sooner we leave London the better.”

His recital was greeted by a stunned silence.

“I’m not altogether sure I have to leave London,” Sofia said into the hush. “I’d prefer not, although apparently”—she scowled at Jamie—“my wishes are irrelevant.”

“Don’t disregard the extent of your danger, Sofie,” the duke counseled. “Von Welden has a very unpleasant reputation. Even here. It would be prudent to err on the side of caution.” He turned to Jamie. “If you like, you could make use of my country homes on your way north. Several are close to your route. My staffs are discreet.”

“Allow me to offer accommodations as well,” Oz remarked. “The security on my estates is substantial should your troopers like to rest.” Oz had been poisoned the previous year, barely survived, and as a result, was vigilant. “Fitz and I can telegraph ahead so you’ll be assured of a warm welcome.”

“Whether we stop overnight or not depends on Miss Eastleigh’s stamina,” Jamie politely replied, a measured contradiction, however, apparent in his tone.

“I’d prefer stopping overnight,” Sofia said, taking satisfaction in the clenching of Jamie’s jaw.

“Why don’t I go along?” Oz volunteered. “I could use a little excitement.” And a referee might be useful with the two principals at daggers drawn.

Sofia gave him a quelling look. “I doubt Isolde would agree.”

Oz grinned. “She’s persuadable.”

“Not on this.” Rosalind and Oz’s wife had become good friends after his marriage, and while Isolde was indulgent to her volatile, devil-may-care husband—up to a point—Rosalind rather thought cutthroat killers would qualify as that limit. “Nor would I be persuadable on this issue,” she firmly added, directing a sharp glance at her husband.

“My troopers are well trained,” Jamie assured everyone. “We’ll be in excellent hands. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve stayed much too long already.”

“He means I insisted on finishing dinner,” Sofia sardonically noted. “I didn’t see any point in generating unnecessary gossip.”

“I agree,” Rosalind kindly observed. “Should anyone ask, we’ll explain that you’re in the country painting. You do often enough it won’t cause comment.”

“And tonight, we’ll simply say that you ran off with Blackwood.” Oz grinned. “That, too, is common enough to cause no comment.”

Sofia sniffed. “Very amusing for a man with your past.” “I’m reformed.”

“Perhaps I shall be someday as well.”

Jamie broke into the conversation. “If you don’t mind, Miss Eastleigh, we should be on our way.” He moved toward her chair.

“I do mind of course, not that it matters in the least,” she lightly said with a smile for her friends. “I’m at this man’s mercy.”

The cost of his restraint could be glimpsed in the slight flare of his nostrils, although Jamie chose not to reply to her flippancy. “I’ll send word once Miss Eastleigh is safe in the Highlands.” Offering his hand to Sofia, he helped her to her feet.

“In case I don’t see you again, remember me fondly,” Sofia airily proclaimed over her shoulder as she and Jamie walked away.

Checking his stride, Jamie turned back. “Miss Eastleigh is in no danger,” he said. “You have my word.”

Moments later, as the library door closed, Fitz blew out a breath. “I’m not sure who’s at whose mercy,” he said with a faint smile. “Sofia’s damned uncooperative tonight.”

Rosalind frowned. “She has reason.”

“Under the circumstances, my dear, she’d do well to listen to Blackwood.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Blackwood,” Oz drawled. “If he can handle Dex, he can deal with Sofie. You saw him at dinner. Wharton was fit to be tied at first, but before long the men were chums. And we all know how difficult Wharton can be when he’s not wooing a lady.” Dex had a reputation for being confrontational, particularly on the polo field.

“I suppose it helps that Blackwood’s been dealing with a demanding patron for years,” Fitz pointed out.

Rosalind smiled. “Like father, like daughter then. I wonder if the prince can actually convince Sofie to accept her title.”

“More pressing is the question of whether she’ll survive to accept it. I still think we should have gone with them, Fitz,” Oz muttered.

“Sofie’s in good hands. Blackwood’s saved Ernst from assassination countless times.”

Oz sighed. “You’re right. Still.”

“Don’t even think it,” Rosalind warned.

Oz grinned. “You can’t stop me from doing that.” He loved his wife and daughter, but that didn’t mean he’d been tamed or that his wild nature was entirely subdued. “It won’t hurt to put my men on alert for Von Welden or his crew. We’d be doing Sofie a good turn if we stopped them in London.”

“Tell him no, Fitz. For heaven’s sake, Oz,” Rosalind protested, “don’t even talk about entering this dangerous game.”

“You’re right, of course,” Oz mildly replied. “I think I’ll have some port and a cigar and contemplate the pleasures of life.”

“Indeed. We should get back to our guests,” Fitz concurred, but as the men were leaving the room, Rosalind in advance of them, he gave Oz a warning glance. “Don’t take too many risks. But if you should need my help”—Fitz grinned—“just let me know.”

U
NDERSTANDING THAT IT was now or never as they approached the entrance hall, Sofia initiated a makeshift plan. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run upstairs and find something of Rosalind’s better suited for travel than this gown. I only need five minutes,” she quickly added because Jamie was looking at her with suspicion. “I’d really like some pants and boots, but that’s not likely, so I’ll settle for a skirt and blouse I suppose, or perhaps a riding habit or bicycling pantaloons,” she rattled on under his skeptical gaze. “It all depends on whether—”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my own clothes.”

“Let’s just say I’d miss your scintillating company.”

“You’re completely unreasonable,” she muttered as they reached the main staircase.

“And you’re not a very good actress,” he said with amusement. “After you, Miss Eastleigh. Five minutes and counting.”

“Oh devil take it,” she grumbled. “Come along if you must.” Picking up her skirts, she ran up the stairs.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he followed her, his pace less one of haste than a matter of matching his stride to her racing sprint. Two flights of stairs and one long corridor later, they arrived at the duchess’s apartments.

Sofia breathless.

Blackwood on guard.

When Sofia burst into the duchess’s bedroom, Rosalind’s lady’s maid, who’d been dozing in a chair, squealed in surprise.

“It’s just me, Miss Tabby. Go back to sleep. I don’t need your help. Rosalind said I could take some traveling clothes from her wardrobe, and this
gentleman
,” she spleenfully rapped out, “insists on helping me.”

“Oh dear.” Miss Tabitha Purdie, who had been a member of the Groveland House staff long before the duchess was born, surveyed Jamie with a critical eye. “Perhaps, that is—I’m not sure this gentleman should be in my lady’s chamber.”

“We won’t be long,” Jamie replied with a bow and a smile for the frail old woman. “I’m a good friend of the duke. And since Miss Eastleigh is concerned with selecting something suitable for travel to Scotland, I said I might be able to help.”

“Scotland?”

“We’re traveling north of Inverness. Do you know the country?” Recognizing a hint of the Highlands in her voice, he’d deliberately broadened his accent and mentioned their destination.

“Aye, reet weel, up and doon and sideways, ye see,” Miss Tabby said with a wide smile, lapsing into her childhood dialect.

With bitter resignation, Sofia watched Blackwood charm Rosalind’s lady’s maid. The two spoke in such a pure Highland dialect, she couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but Miss Tabby’s smile was obvious, and before long the elderly maid waved Sofia into Rosalind’s dressing room. “Go on in, dearie. Jamie says ye’re in a right hurry.”

“What a coincidence,” Jamie drawled as he followed Sofia into the dressing room and shut the door behind him. “She was born in the valley next to mine.”

“And if she wasn’t, I’m sure you would have told her she was.”

Ignoring her snappish retort, he said, “She’s a nice old lady. She knew my grandfather.”

“If only I could elicit the same charming benevolence from you,” Sofia sarcastically murmured, “the world would be perfection.”

He hesitated fractionally, then put out his hand. “I’m willing to start over if you are, Miss Eastleigh. An armistice? What do you say?”

Did he mean it? Or was this more of the masterful manipulation she’d already viewed twice tonight. First with Wharton and now with Miss Tabby.

He glanced down at his outstretched hand, looked up, and smiled. “I’m serious. It’s up to you.”

“Very well. I accept your offer of detente.” She shook his hand and told herself it wasn’t really lying when one’s life was at stake.

“Fair enough. Now, should we see if the duchess has some riding pants? A modern woman such as she might.” The movement for women’s independence extended beyond the right to vote; many women were choosing to abandon the encumbrances of feminine dress. His gaze quickly measured Sofia. “You’re much smaller, though.” He turned to the wall of built-in wardrobes. “We’ll need a belt.”

“You have an eye for female sizes, I see. But of course you—sorry,” she quickly interjected as he shot her a jaundiced look. “I apologize. Although surely you understand why I’m not cheerful when my life has been completely disrupted.”

Her lack of common sense was extraordinary. “If all goes well, Miss Eastleigh, our association will be brief and your life will return to normal,” he politely said. “In the meantime we’d do well to concentrate on survival.” He began opening wardrobe doors. “Despite your doubts in that regard.”

“Allow me my doubts and I’ll allow you your, shall we say, authoritarian inclinations.”

“Gladly. Ah, here, this looks promising.” He pulled out a pair of twill riding pants and bent to pick up a pair of low riding boots. “See if these fit or fit well enough.” He tossed them on a chair. “I’ll find you a shirt and jacket.”

“I’m supposed to undress—here—with you?”

He swivelled around and gave her his widest smile. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Didn’t you say one of my duties would be washing your back?”

“Very funny.”

“Change or travel in that gown. It’s up to you.” He turned back to his search.

His directive was uncompromisingly blunt. Furthermore, trailing skirts and a tight bodice would be a disadvantage to her escape. So she set aside issues of modesty. Kicking off her evening slippers, she pulled down her petticoats, stepped over the frothy pile of lace and tulle on the carpet, and swung around so her back was to Jamie. “Do you mind? I can’t reach these hooks.”

“Just a minute,” he said, rifling through a shelf of blouses. She clenched her teeth. Soon she’d no longer be subject to his will.

Moments later he carried over a linen shirt and leather jacket, dropped them on a nearby chair, and without a word, began unhooking her gown.

Studiously ignoring the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, her closeness, he deftly unclasped the small, concealed hooks. He was familiar with the drill, but not, however, with the current hindrances that impeded what would normally be the next step after undressing a lady.