The Lady In Question (38 page)

Abruptly he moved, spread her thighs apart and knelt between her legs. He lowered his head, his tongue tracing patterns on her stomach and moving slowly, inexorably downward. He spread her open with his fingers and his tongue flicked over that most sensitive part of her. Shocking pleasure, intense and primitive, shot through her, and she cried out and a rational, thoroughly proper part of her mind noted this wasn’t the least bit proper and she should tell him to stop. She ignored it. Never had she imagined such delicious sin, at once terrible and magnificent, that pulsed and throbbed from his mouth on her. Fire pooled deep inside her and flared and burned, a mindless fever that grew and roared hotter and hotter until she thought surely she would burst into flames.

Without warning, he stopped and she arched upward instinctively, seeking his touch. He planted his hands on either side of her and plunged into her, taking her as she had wanted. A declaration of possession and power and passion. She called out his name and pulled at her bonds and wanted to embrace him, but was unable to do more than revel in the power of his body joining with hers. She was helpless and he did as he wished with her and it was glorious.

She moved her hips with his. Met his thrusts with a wanton eagerness that had nothing to do with her position or this wedding night game and everything to do with her heart. He was a part of her that had nothing to do with the joining of their bodies and everything to do with the merging of their souls. She no longer knew where he left off and she began, and no longer cared. Pure passion, sheer pleasure carried her higher with his every stroke, every thrust, until she thought she could bear it no longer, and still she would not have it stop. Until he moaned and thrust yet again and glorious release seized her and she exploded around him, with him, in wave after wave of magnificent sensation and sheer joy and absolute delight.

He collapsed on top of her, his labored breathing against her ear. And she fought to find her own breath. His heart beat hard next to hers and it was as intimate as their coupling — no, more. His heart beat in time to her own. And she knew, with a deep certainly that came from her very soul, it always would.

He raised his head and she couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but she could hear the grin in his voice. “Was that wicked and dangerous enough for you?”

“Indeed, I think it was quite…quite…” Laughter bubbled up from deep inside her. “Quite.”

“Not
nice
, then?”

She laughed. “No, no, definitely not nice.”

“Excellent.” He rolled over to lay by her side.

“I believe you can untie me now.”

“I don’t know if that would be wise.” He trailed his finger over her breast.

“Tony!”

“I rather like having you tied up. Think of it as an adventure.”

“It was an adventure.” She giggled. “And I rather liked being tied up as well. Being completely helpless.”

“You, my love, will never be completely helpless.”

“Perhaps I am a tart after all.”

“Perhaps you are.”

“But I’m your tart.”

“Indeed you are, for now and always.” He kissed her firmly.

“Perhaps someday I shall tie you up.”

“Perhaps.” He laughed, reached over her head and untied his cravat.

She wrapped her arms around him. “Or perhaps I can be the highwayman and you can be a runaway prince.” She pulled him close and nibbled at his ear. “You did say something about gunpoint.”

Tony awoke abruptly and sat upright in bed. For an instant he struggled to get his bearings, then recognized what had jerked him out of a sound, satisfied sleep.

The distinct acrid odor of wood smoke hung in the air.

“Bloody hell.” He leapt out of bed and felt for his trousers, discarded somewhere on the floor.

“What is it?” Delia’s voice sounded groggily from the bed.

“The house is on fire. Get up!” He found the trousers and yanked them on. “Now, Delia!”

“What?”

“Clothes, do you know where your clothes are?” His voice rang loud and sharp to drag her to her senses.

“I have a wrapper somewhere, I don’t —”

He groped at the foot of the bed and found the robe and thrust it at her. “Here!” The smoke was not overly heavy, but he had no idea how bad it might be. “Quickly, Delia!”

“Tony.” Her voice rang with confusion and shock, but she got to her feet and slipped on her robe. “I can’t go —”

“Quiet!” He grabbed her, threw her over his shoulder and carried her out of the room. Angry voices sounded from the lower floor. Halfway down the stairway, he noted light from the parlor and realized it was from candles and not an inferno. He drew a deep breath of relief and set Delia down on the stairs.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

She struggled to stand. “Why? This is my house and if it’s on fire I want to see how bad it is. You can

’t leave me here.”

“For the first time in our lives together, and very likely the last, do exactly as I say.” He cupped her chin and gazed firmly into her eyes. “Do you understand? I want you to remain here until I’ve determined what’s happened. Besides” — his voice softened — “I would prefer my wife not present herself in front of the servants so scandalously dressed.”

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded grudgingly and sat down on the step. “I warn you, I will not wait long.”

“No doubt.” He gave her a quick kiss and hurried down the stairs and into the parlor. The heavy smell of smoke lingered in the air. The far wall was charred and water puddled on the floor, but the fire itself was out. Damage from the blaze appeared minimal.

“We were lucky, sir.” Mac wiped a grimy hand wearily across his forehead. “We found it right after it started.”

Mrs. Miller stood glowering between two of the other men.

“It was Mrs. Miller.” Mac scowled at the woman. “We caught her trying to escape just after she started the fire. She still had a smell of lamp oil about her.”

Mrs. Miller responded with a defiant glare.

“Is this true?” Tony said slowly, reluctant to believe that one of his own could be working against them.

“Sir, she had her bag with her and we found these.” Mac handed Tony a packet of papers. Tony untied the packet and leafed through the pages, then glanced at Mrs. Miller. “The Effington Papers, I presume?” He turned his attention back to the papers and his jaw clenched. As disappointed as he was in her, he was more so with himself. The threat to Delia had been right here under his nose all along and he hadn’t seen it. “Where’s the money?”

She shrugged.

“You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

Mrs. Miller looked at him for a moment, then laughed. “Why should I explain anything to you?”

“Indeed. Why should you? The truth is evident.” His gaze dropped to the papers. “They’re forgeries, aren’t they? And you had them all along, which means this is not what you’ve been looking for.” At once the answer struck him. “It’s the notebook, isn’t it? That’s what you were after.”

“Come, now, St. Stephens, I know how this works. I’ve been in this position before. You think at this point I shall fall to pieces and confess all.” Mrs. Miller snorted in disdain. “Not bloody likely.”

“I’ve never laid a hand on a woman before, sir, but in this case,”

Mac said in a low, threatening voice, “I should be more than willing to —”

“It’s not necessary, Mac.” Tony studied Mrs. Miller for a long moment. “Whatever she’s been trying to find is obviously still in the house, or at least she thinks it is. But tonight was her last opportunity to do anything. Once my wife and I leave tomorrow, this operation is over and you will all have new assignments. As Mrs. Miller has apparently failed to find what she’s been looking for in the house, her only option was to burn the place down.” He narrowed his eyes. “With us in it.”

“You have nothing of substance, St. Stephens.” Mrs. Miller smiled in a smug manner. “The fire was scarcely more than an unfortunate accident. I simply dropped a lamp. Clumsy of me, but —”

“Accident, my ass,” Mac said indignantly. “We caught her in the act, sir.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Miller, I’d say we have a great deal. Starting a fire and attempting to kill us all at the very least. Given your possession of the Effington Papers, I suspect we can add trying to extort money from the government, forgery and” — realization struck him and his stomach twisted — “the murder of Charles Wilmont. He is dead, isn’t he?”

She raised a brow. “Did you doubt it? Did you ever truly think Wilmont would have betrayed you and that blasted department? He might have acted the scoundrel, but his loyalty to the crown and his sense of honor were far greater than I ever imagined. And if you’ve believed otherwise, even for a moment, you’re not as good a friend as you thought you were.”

“You are not the one he betrayed.” Her expression hardened. “He was never supposed to marry
her.
It shouldn’t have happened. His purpose was to learn the truth about the papers and purchase them. Nothing more than that. It would have worked beautifully too if he had simply done as he was supposed to. He never would have known anything about me. I would have had the money and he and I…”

Bitterness sounded in her voice. “He made promises and I believed them. I was a fool and he deserved what he got.”

“You killed him?” Delia’s disbelieving voice sounded from the doorway. “You killed Charles?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Miller hissed. “And I quite enjoyed it.”

“I don’t understand.” Delia stepped farther into the room, her gaze intent on Mrs. Miller. “Why?”

“Because of you.” Mrs. Miller fairly spat the words. “Wilmont was supposed to be mine. You were nothing more than a —”

“Than a what?” Delia’s voice rose.

“Mac,” Tony said quickly. “Get her out of here.”

“Wait,” Delia snapped. “Than a what?”

Mrs. Miller smirked. “Ask your new husband. And while you’re at it, ask him about your butler too.”

“Mac,” Tony growled.

“Yes, sir.” Mac nodded at the other men, who hurried Mrs. Miller from the room.

“I don’t understand.” Delia shook her head. “My housekeeper killed my husband and now” — she looked around the room and her eyes widened — “has tried to set my house on fire?”

“I can explain,” Tony said, stepping toward her.

She backed away. “And what was she saying about Gordon?” Delia glanced around the room. “He’s not here. Where is he?”

“Delia.” Again Tony started toward her.

She turned on her heel and started toward the hall.

Mac stepped in front on her, blocking her way. “My lady —”

“Let her go, Mac.”

Delia cast him an odd look, full of doubt and confusion, then headed toward Gordon’s room.

“She’ll find out everything, sir,” Mac said quietly.

“I know.” Tony took a silver candlestick from a table and lit it with a punk from the fireplace. Even to himself he seemed to move extraordinarily slowly, obviously reluctant to face what he knew was ahead. Still, it could not be put off. He drew a deep breath and started after her. Delia stood in the center of the butler’s room. “He’s not here, Tony.” Her gaze met his. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Delia.” Tony set the candle on the desk.

“Where is he?”

Was it possible that she hadn’t yet realized the truth? Could it be he still had a way to get out of this without telling her everything?

“Has he gone? Now, in the middle of the night? He’s an old man, Tony. If that witch has hurt him…”

She turned to the chest of drawers.

“Delia, don’t!”

“If his things are here” — she yanked a drawer open — “then he’s obviously in some sort of dire straits and…” She stared into the drawer for an endless moment.

“Delia.” He stepped toward her.

With two fingers she pulled his mustache out of the drawer and stared at him. “What is this?”

“I can explain.” He struggled to keep a note of desperation from his voice. She dropped it on the top of the chest, then retrieved his eyebrows and spectacles, placing them next to the mustache. She stared at the articles of disguise for a long time. At last her gaze met his. Her voice was cold. “How could I have been such a fool?”

“It’s not what you think,” he said quickly.

“Who are you?”

“I am exactly who you think I am. Anthony St. Stephens, Viscount St. Stephens.”

“Perhaps I did not phrase the question correctly,” She said slowly.

“What are you?”

He drew a deep breath. “I am an agent of His Majesty’s government.”

“A spy?”

“Spy
really isn’t the right term.
Agent
is more accurate. I work for a department of the government whose purpose it is to protect and investigate and…” She glared at him. “I suppose
spy
works as well as anything at this point.”

“And Gordon, dear sweet old man that he was, my butler, my confidant, my
friend,
does not exist at all, does he?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“You should be very afraid.” Delia pushed past him and strode back to the parlor. Mac stood in the doorway. She stopped and cast a disgusted glance at him. “Are you a spy too?”

“I wouldn’t use the word
spy,
my lady,” Mac said. “I think
agent
is really —”

She uttered an odd sort of scream, and stalked into the room. Tony followed at her heels, disregarding Mac’s halfhearted smile of encouragement.

“I’d tell you to shut the door, although I suspect your MacPherson out there would simply press his ear against it. Besides, we would both choke to death on the smell of smoke in here.” She whirled toward him, clutching her robe tighter about her. “So what are you, in truth? An arrogant viscount? An incompetent butler? A spy?”

“Your husband.” It was the first thing that came to mind, and he knew the moment the words left his mouth they were a dreadful mistake.