The Notorious Bridegroom (4 page)

Strangely, she offered no protest, and he wasted no time examining his motives or his good luck, only pleased with this wet nymph’s response to his ardency.

Her soft, pliant lips quivered as he wooed her mouth in tender exploration. His tongue licked smooth caresses over her mouth in light persuasion until she allowed him entrance into the sweetest haven he had ever tasted.

He groaned at her innocent acceptance of his tongue. With his other arm still wrapped around her waist, he pulled her down until her breasts pressed intimately against his wet chest and the rest of her damp body lay more firmly anchored in the harbor of his legs. This woman had aroused him in a matter of seconds. His body responded to her sweetly rounded hips beneath his hand, and her peaked nipples against his chest tortured his sanity.

Caught in a dream of wanting and blood-pulsing, fiery desire, he easily circled her slim waist and rubbed his aroused manhood against her feminine heat, wondering if she ached as much as he did.

A knock on the door caught the entranced couple off guard, and Bryce heard the countess call out.

“Bryce? Are you in there?”

His hands tightened on the young woman’s hips upon hearing Isabella, reluctant to let her go, yet not wanting his ex-mistress to find her here in his arms. A brief hesitation, then his wet companion rolled out of his surprised arms onto the hard floor with a thump. Her action immediately cooled his heated senses.

With no further delay, he rose onto his good knee and deftly raised himself off the floor. In his haste, he did not risk another look at the young woman, but hurried across the room to the unlocked door to prevent Isabella from entering.

Too late. She burst into the room in a manner which suggested no amount of bars or locks could have prevented her. Her azure-blue silk dressing gown hissed around her silk slippers as she pushed past him.

“
Mon chéri,
you know I do not like waiting. And it has been so long since you have made love to me,” she told him reprovingly, with red lips pouting.

He closed his eyes and muttered a groan. He did not turn around but waited for her anticipated reaction.

“Bryce, how could you? You are quite careless,” her cool voice adding to the chill in the air.

Ironically, she had just reminded him of how warm he had been. Puzzled, he turned to find the countess gliding to the open window. No trace of the damp sprite remained. She had simply vanished.

Suddenly a fearful thought occurred to him.
Had she escaped the way she’d arrived?
In a few strides, he reached the window, but Isabella had already closed it.

“This rain has
certainment
soaked the curtains. What a dilemma! You should have shut these windows earlier,” she chided him. She faced him with a sly smile painted on her lips.
“Mon amour,
I could not stop thinking about your invitation,” she purred.

He brushed her aside and yanked open the casement windows. A quick glance to the left and down allowed him to breathe again. She had not left by the window. The only other exit was the door to his valet’s room, which had a door to the hallway. Desperately, he tried to think of a way to get rid of Isabella as he shut the windows again.

Isabella’s long arms curled around his waist as she pressed her full breasts against his back, then stepped away and walked in front of him. “Bryce, why are you wet? Were you standing at the window letting the rain soak you?”

“Ah, yes, I thought I saw something outside, so I leaned out to see what it was.”

“I can dry you. Come to bed. I have what you need.” Her searching hands efficiently found his aroused member, still hard with the memory of another woman. “And you have what I want.”

Bryce removed her hands from him.
This was a foolish idea. It had been from the beginning.
She had been amusing a few years ago, but when he returned last November, she had insisted on accompanying him home. She thought he needed her. She was wrong. He had not had a need for her in a long time.

However, Providence had played a hand in the arrangements by bringing the countess’s cousin Alain Sansouche, a suspected French spy, with her to Paddock Green. And while Sansouche was under the same roof, it would be easier for Bryce to observe him.

Keeping Isabella at arm’s length while he continued with his plans to locate the ring of French spies had proven to be a nuisance these past few months. Obviously not undone by his lack of encouragement, she pressed her hands to his chest and raised her head to seal a wet, inviting kiss on his lips.

The kiss, vastly different from the one with his wet nymph, triggered Bryce to his senses. Where the nymph’s kiss had broken through his despair, Isabella’s felt cold and manipulative. He’d tasted youthful, redeeming innocence and wanted a second course of the vision that had dropped into his arms.

Intent on his comparison, he realized too late the countess had pulled him to the bed. He watched her dispassionately as if he was in the audience and not a participant of the show as she reached up and slowly untied the only ribbon holding her dressing gown together. She lay back on the bed waiting for her temptation to work as it had done before.

The temptation she sold was hard not to buy. Long, thick blond hair draped over one milky-white shoulder, her tall, full body shone pale against the black canvas of the rich marble counterpane. Honeyed nipples pouted for attention.

But another woman occupied his mind. A woman he had held briefly and would remember for a lifetime. He reached across Isabella’s white body and gathered her dressing gown together, securing the ends with their tiny blue ribbons.

“I think perhaps you should leave,” he said, his voice quiet.

“But why do you turn me away? I thought you wanted me.
You
asked me here tonight.” She pursed her bright lips, then rose indignantly from the bed in displeasure over his rejection. Because of his plans, he needed her in his home and cast about for a worthy excuse for his behavior.

“Please forgive me, Isabella. My leg rather pains me this evening.”

Bright blue eyes grew concerned, and she threw herself into his arms. “Why ever did you not tell me? Perhaps I could stay and rub it? Would it not feel better?”

Her cloying perfume nearly suffocated him. He easily detached her ivylike arms from around his neck and showed her to the door. “Thank you, no. I need to rest.”

“Bryce, do you not realize I love you? I believe you once cared for me.” She dared a hand on his arm, her gaze searching his face, almost looking as if she remembered how to cry.

He removed her hand gently before responding. “Isabella, you do me no service in your love for me. I have told you that before.”

“I will not give up hope,
mon cher.
” Isabella, with a tiny smile on her face, lifted her chin and sailed through the door, taking her still-intact pride with her.

Bryce sighed in relief and quickly closed the door to begin his search for the wet young woman. Where could she be? He looked under the bed, then in his valet’s room, hoping she might have hidden there waiting for him, her lithe body still flush with the heat of their embrace.

But his search proved fruitless. He then exhausted most of the house and did not rest until he had looked into every darkened corner for a splash of dark hair and willing full lips.

Finally, reluctantly, he accepted that she was gone. Left him without a promise to return or proof she even existed. He wandered back to his rooms and threw himself on the bed.

Had he only dreamed her? Had he really held her sweet form in his arms? When sleep finally arrived, his body and soul sought sanctuary from his regular nightmares with thoughts of Mrs. Grundy. Was she his savior or his nemesis?

Safely back in her room, door locked, Patience fumbled with the sleeves of her damp nightdress. In her haste, she ripped the seam at the wrist, causing her to mutter an oath. She threw aside the nightdress and wrap and then buttoned herself into a long linen shirt before crawling into bed. She gathered the bedcovers up to her neck, but the shivering would not stop.

She knew it was only a matter of time before he uncovered her disguise. Maybe not tonight, but soon, if she didn’t use more sense. Would he suspect she was one of the new maids? She could only pray he would have no cause to look further than the first two floors, and hoped that her venture would have no ill affect on her health. Thankfully, her guardian angel had seen her through this little escapade.

Suddenly, Patience sat up. She had not taken her lucky onyx with her. Yes, that must be the reason why fortune had deserted her.

With a tired shake of her head, she settled back onto her small, lumpy bed. Although she’d intended to put the night from her mind, when she closed her eyes, the past hour replayed itself like a nightmare. Or possibly more like a lovely dream, as if his lordship was not her enemy but her lover.

Back on the ledge, she had already decided to return to the other bedroom when the earl held out his hand to her. Panicked, her mind went daft. His voice rang in the wet night loud and yet gentle, compelling her to trust him to save her. Her hand held in his firm grasp, she knew he would not let her fall.

After he had carried her through the window, she remembered a fright so great that if he’d asked her what she was doing out there, she would have confessed her deception.

Everything had happened so quickly that before she realized it, she had landed on top of his warm, hard body. Stunned at being discovered, Patience allowed this stranger to press a kiss on her unsuspecting lips. She had never been kissed in such a way that numbing fear could dissolve into sweet, mind-robbing pleasure. She heaved a sigh. He had tasted of rain and fire and—she licked her lips—brandy.

Patience shuddered, thinking how close she’d come to becoming unmasked. If not for her quick action of rolling right under the bed and over to the far side, she would still be in the earl’s room trying to explain why she happened to be standing outside his window in the pouring rain.

Before she had crawled through the opposite door, she had taken a quick peek across the room and saw the earl embrace a woman. Probably his mistress that the servants had mentioned earlier. She was amazed that the earl could so easily trade one woman for another. But if what she suspected of him to be true, his Don Juan nature was yet another sly trick in his basket of spy misdeeds.

With the earl and countess absorbed in each other, it had seemed a perfect time to exit. She went through a small study, which she disappointingly had no time to explore, to the hall door, nearly safe. As if the French were after her, she flew down the hallway and up to the attic, hoping no one was up and about to see her flight.

Secured in her tiny room, she’d deliberated over whether she was thankful or disappointed that the countess had arrived when she did.
What was the matter with her?
Of course she was thankful, ever so grateful that his seduction had ended when it did. She chose not to pursue musings on what might have happened if the countess had not made an appearance.
Oh, how could she have let herself be cozened by him?

True, he was handsome when he smiled, and he might kiss as if he could set her world on fire, but she, Patience Leticia Mandeley, would have none of it.
She vowed not to let him near her again when her emotions were unguarded.

She would be more careful in the future. This spy business certainly would take some practice.

Oh, the earl was a devious one. I will just have to watch him more closely next time. Since he was a spy, he probably knew all sorts of ploys to make people talk.
Convinced that she would yet prove to be a worthy opponent in his game, she drifted off to sleep, still reproaching herself for vividly remembering the earl’s kiss and finding pleasure in it.

Patience scowled into her small looking glass on the shelf. Shadows under her eyes heightened her translucent skin. Admittedly, she was a bit tired from her adventure last evening, but then she always had difficulty rising in the morning. When she’d dragged her protesting body from bed and washed, she felt fit to face the beckoning day and the unsuspecting earl.

Brother James often said a righteous cause has the strength of angels behind it, but Patience thought she could have used a little more help from above. With a shrug, she turned to look for her ivory combs to capture her unruly hair. Only one could be found. She searched the small room and saw no sign of the missing comb. The pair had been her mother’s, and she hated losing one.

Slowly sinking onto the bed, Patience believed she may have worn them last night on her ill-planned trip to the earl’s room. If she wanted it back, there simply was no recourse but to search his room. The thought of entering his bedchambers again so soon made her apprehensive. When would it be safe to venture back into the enemy’s lair? Only when she was absolutely certain the earl was nowhere nearby.

Ready to work, Patience entered the kitchen, wondering how she could learn the earl’s whereabouts, since she wanted to explore his study. Although the housekeeper was not about, the old cook, Melenroy, told Patience that she was to see to the storeroom and organize it. With a heavy sigh, Patience headed downstairs in the direction the cook pointed, determined to be the fastest organizer Mrs. Knockersmith had ever hired.

Bryce spent a few hours reviewing crop rotations with his land steward, then mounted Defiance and headed for Viscount Carstairs’s estate, with Captain Keegan Kilkennen by his side. The captain’s ship would be undergoing repairs for the next week, and Bryce wanted Keegan’s opinion on the viscount’s murder. They planned to meet the constable at Carstairs’s home to discuss it.

“You seem preoccupied, my friend,” Keegan remarked as they trotted side by side over the rolling verdant meadow. Their horses’ hooves left fresh imprints on the soft, rain-dampened ground. “What causes the frown? This murder business or a woman?” he teased.

Bryce returned a grin. “Truthfully, a bit of both.” Although he should concentrate on Carstairs’s murder, Mrs. Grundy haunted his thoughts. Where had she come from? Why and how had she entered his home? Where was she now? And what was her real name? Whatever her purpose, he wanted her not to be a part of the deceptive world of spying.

Keegan pressed Bryce further. “Tell me it is not the countess who brings that look to your face. Why do you allow her and that scurvy cousin of hers to remain at Paddock Green?”

His grin broadening into a smile, Bryce shook his head. “You certainly harbor little love for Isabella. Actually, I consider it my duty to the king to keep them under my roof. I do not trust Sansouche, and he can be easily followed from here on his midnight jaunts through the countryside. We almost caught him and his cohorts in Little Shepherd’s Cemetery a few nights past. The next time, we will succeed. The problem is holding the countess at bay. If I send her to London, her cousin would go with her.”

Keegan blew a low whistle after Bryce’s explanation. “So that is your game. You think Sansouche is the French spy.”

“Actually, I think Sansouche is in league with the spy, but he’s not their leader. I had Red Tattoo on his trail, but lately my valet has been working on another matter.”

With raised brows, Keegan asked, “Yes?”

It was not until both men slowed their mounts to cross the narrow, rambling brook which adjoined Londringham’s and Carstairs’s estates that Bryce replied, “Red has been looking for a young woman that I met at the fair as well as the young Rupert Mandeley. He may know something about his cousin’s murder, but unfortunately, the boy seems to have disappeared without a trace.”

Keegan mused, “A girl, a murder, and French spies. Must keep Red busy. Where is he now?”

“He traveled to Storrington to visit the young man’s family. I expect his return any day, hopefully with good news.” Conversation was postponed as they hied their horses up the circular driveway.

Carstairs’s butler greeted the men at the door and ushered them into the front parlor where the local constable, Lyle Cavendish, awaited them. Bright sunlight from the windows that aligned the east wall lit the dark-wainscoted room.

Cavendish’s small eyes blinked behind his thick spectacles as he squirmed his pudgy body further into the small chair. His bushy black moustache seemed to cover most of his countenance except for the thick brows that framed his small, pale face.

Bryce nodded to his friend. “Mr. Cavendish, this is my associate, Captain Keegan Kilkennen. I asked him to accompany me today. Your note indicated that you have suspicions that Carstairs may have been selling secrets to the French. What accounts for this?”

Cavendish rubbed his hands together and replied in his earnest Yorkshire accent, “Yes, I believe the viscount was working with our enemy. Connecting the pieces to the puzzle, I recently learned that Carstairs had lost funds at a rather rapid pace for several months. Then suddenly, his situation changes, and he has money to spare. Even his lawyer cannot explain the viscount’s recent wealth. Apparently, the man trusted no one and was extremely secretive.”

Keegan leaned against a nearby desk. “And who might you think killed him? His French benefactors would have wanted to keep him alive for his information. Do you think his cousin, this young Mandeley fellow, had anything to do with his murder?”

Drumming his fat fingers on the arm of his chair, Cavendish intoned, “Too soon to say. The maid declares she saw the young man standing over the body. That’s all we have. No motive, no murder weapon, nothing. But it certainly does look serious for the young man. His disappearance has only increased the opinion of guilt most have about him.”

“It is not Mandeley.”

Cavendish and Keegan glanced over at Bryce upon hearing his surprising conviction.

The captain frowned and confronted his friend. “How did you come to this conclusion?”

Bryce slowly progressed around the large study, studying the objects and furniture as if seeking answers and seemingly uninterested in the conversation when he looked up and said thoughtfully, “It is my job to know people and where their loyalties lie. I have been thinking about the night I met Rupert Mandeley at a local family’s soiree. We spoke only briefly, but he seemed like an eager, jovial chap and very wet behind the ears.”

He held up his hand to halt any encroaching argument. “Not in Carstairs’s league. If we find the motive behind the murder, we shall find our assassin. However, I certainly would like to find the Mandeley boy. I think he could tell us something.”

The constable’s eyes squeezed tight, listening to Londringham’s pronouncement. He moved his jaw from side to side, then decided, “Londringham. You could be right. However, we may indeed find that behind the innocence of youth lies a deceitful heart.”

Bryce’s only response was a lift of an arched brow.

They spent the better part of the morning interviewing the house staff and searching for answers in the shambles of the study. But they found no motive for the murder or clues to the murderer’s identity. Reviewing documents left on Carstairs’s desk, Bryce noticed Cavendish absentmindedly spinning the large globe on its stand near the windows.

Remembering something Carstairs had once said, Bryce hurried over to the stand and stopped its movement. His hands expertly skimmed over the smooth circumference as the other men watched in amazement. At the bottom of the globe, his forefinger felt a tiny metal hook. He pulled the hook and a document fell to the floor.

Bryce bent down and scooped the rolled paper into his hand. A quick glance at the unfurled scroll was all he needed. “This is what he wanted.”

“Who?” Keegan asked, peering over Bryce’s shoulder.

“The murderer. It is a map marked with weak joints of our battlements along the coast. I saw a similar document in Hobart’s offices. This map could help the French determine where best to land their troops in an invasion.” He paused thoughtfully. “Carstairs’s death must have something to do with the French spies in our midst. If Carstairs was feeding information to the French, that would account for his sudden wealth, but not his murder.”

All three men stared at the document in the earl’s hands, wondering what vital information Carstairs might have passed on to the French. Although Cavendish wanted to claim the paper as evidence, Bryce persuaded the constable to allow him to keep it for awhile. It might prove useful in catching a spy or two, he jested.

Later, after dinner, Bryce relaxed in the library on the settee near the fireplace, wincing unconsciously at the pain in his right thigh. He thought very little about his injury and too much of a deeper wound he allowed no one to see. Just one of the many casualties of last November. Revenge held him tighter than a spiderweb holds a fly. He was a captive of that night and would never be free until he had caught Edward’s murderer.

Soon. Soon, he’d find the French spies. Then he could return to France and search for the Frenchwoman spy.

He turned his mind to Carstairs’s murder. Although he and the constable were convinced that the viscount had been in league with the French spies, they were not entirely sure what other Englishmen might be enjoying heavier pockets in exchange for military information. And then there was the matter of the countess’s cousin, Alain Sansouche.

In the past month, the Frenchman had acted extremely respectable, with not one whiff of any peculiar or suspicious actions.

Further contemplation was interrupted when, under half-closed lids, he watched Keegan, Isabella, and Sansouche stroll into the library. Isabella immediately disengaged herself from her cousin and glided across the room to sit by Bryce’s side, leaning very close to him, the deep cut of her ruby-red gown displaying her assets.

“Bryce,
mon cher,
you should have heard the charming story Alain told about his trip across the Channel. It was very dangerous. They nearly capsized twice and were shot at by the English! Is that not exciting?”

The subject of the countess’s discourse stood near the fireplace. “My cousin believes my journey more amusing than it truly was. Londringham, I have not had an opportunity to extend to you my appreciation that you permit me to stay here with my cousin.”

Bryce noticed the Frenchman’s smile did not reach all the corners of his face, but he acknowledged Sansouche with a slight nod.

Bloody hell, where is my port?
He smiled grimly to himself—though his thirst was more for revenge, he’d have to settle for libation. Nothing would satisfy him but a Frenchwoman’s head on a plate or a pretty green-eyed vixen in his bed. No sense in letting that thought distract him. He was amazed how often he did think of Mrs. Grundy, even with Isabella practically sitting on his lap.

Thankfully, he noted the footman had arrived with the sought-after port.

“Shall we have a game of cards, anyone?” Isabella’s suggestion caused everyone to turn to her. “We need four players and there are exactly four people in the room. Whist? Bridge? Alain, yes?”

“Your servant, madam,” he responded.

The countess next turned to Bryce, who had stood and walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of port. “And you, my lord? Shall we count you in?”

Bryce stared into his port as if the opaque color could tell him something. When he realized they were waiting expectantly, he looked up and smiled apologetically. “Cards? I think not.” His response brooked no opposition.

“Captain, would you…?” Isabella looked across the room to Keegan, who studied several leather-bound books on the wall-length bookcases.

He took a long swallow before replying, “Not interested in games with any Frenchies.”

The countess raised her chin perceptibly. “You Irish are beneath the lowest servants. You are so vulgar and unimaginative, no culture, no fashion. Whatever do you have in your dreadful little country?” She shared a chuckle with her cousin.

The captain strode over to the settee. Bryce recognized his friend’s dark expression, which had frightened many a lazy sailor and loosened a few tongues. Keegan rested a hand on the arm of the settee and leaned down mere inches from her face. “The Irish, mum, enjoy the finest stout, the fastest horseflesh, and the rarest women, none of which I am sure the frog-eating Frenchmen have ever seen.”

Keegan’s insolent answer stunned the woman into what Bryce knew was a rare speechlessness. The captain sauntered back over to the bookcase and drained his glass with one swallow.

Bryce watched as Isabella’s face turned red with anger, her blue eyes small slits of spitting venom. He would have to remind his friend to curb his tongue around the countess. They mixed together like Whigs and Tories.

In obvious exasperation with the Irishman, Isabella spilled her drink on the front of her dress and jumped up, sputtering. Sansouche appeared at her side immediately.

“Ma chérie,
it is truly insignificant. Calm yourself and let us see if your maid might be able to save it.” He soothed and calmed her while escorting her to the door.

At their absence, Keegan smacked his hands together. “What delightful events conspired to rid us of her presence.”

Before he could continue, they heard it.
Click.
Followed by a smooth rolling. The wall behind Bryce’s desk disappeared and Red Tattoo, Bryce’s valet, walked into the room. A ruddy face to match his red hair and a thin scar along the side of his face and neck, Red looked more like a smuggler than a valet, especially given his filthy appearance. “Ready for my report, my lord. I waited for the French witch and her cousin to leave and thought the air clear.”

After locking the library room door Bryce gestured to a nearby chair. “Yes, I am most anxious to learn of your progress.”

“It’s like this. I went to that place, Storrington, you sent me to and had me a look around. Spoke to the neighbors, even the boy’s family at a place called Susetta Fields. Sounds French to me.”