Your Wicked Heart (8 page)

For these flimsy reasons, he had come to think of her as blameless.

He had taken her side, and begun to doubt his cousin.

He stared at her, barely attending to the inspector’s reply. No, Mizzi assured Miss Thomas, he had not troubled the gentleman with too many questions; had only told Mr. Smith (ridiculous pseudonym; that lack of creativity
did
sound like Charles) that he, the inspector, had every sympathy for hapless victims of Syrosian thugs, and every fondness for the good men of the British Empire, tallyho!

And as this monologue spilled out, Spence felt himself sink deeper into disgust, for despite the obvious evidence before him—Charles robbed; Amanda Thomas caught with Charles’s ring—
despite
this plain picture of guilt, everything in him
still
wanted to believe her innocent. His instincts fairly screamed to him:
She is not guilty!

His instincts had never failed him before. But what if his own faith in her was simply the product of her criminal skill?

“But you look troubled,” the inspector observed to him. “Is this Mr. Smith a friend?”

“Yes,” said Spence.

Miss Thomas shot him a queer look, no doubt puzzled by his claim to know his impostor. In the lamplight, her blond curls formed a halo around her face, an angelic effect further pronounced by the high color in her full, round cheeks.

The most dangerous creatures were often the most alluring. Bright colors, irresistibly touchable beauty: nature’s bait for the unwary fool.

He turned away from the sight of her, focusing squarely on the inspector. “Yes,” he said, “I know him. You truly have no notion of whether he remains on the island?”

The inspector shrugged. “Oh, he was made happy, in the end. Sold a pair of cuff links for passage on the
Malveron
—this very morning it left. I made a solemn promise: if I catch word of a Syrosian thief, I will send him to justice, British style!”

The inspector gave a violent chop of his hand, suggesting a very peculiar understanding of British justice.

“The Maltese way,” added the inspector, “is not so kind.”

Now Spence did look toward Miss Thomas—deliberately, letting her see the dark thoughts in his face.

She frowned as though puzzled—as though she could not guess that he might, at this very moment, say,
Your Syrosian thief stands right here, Mizzi. Take her. Show her how the Maltese treat a criminal.

But perhaps she knew him better than he knew himself. For even as he recognized the temptation, it revealed itself to be clawless. Fleeting.

If she was a thief, he would hand her over, all right—but to British justice alone.That way, he would have the satisfaction of watching her suffer the consequences.

“Before you go,” said Mizzi, “I hope you will permit me to make sure your
passports are in order?” Waving his hand, he beckoned in one of his men, who bore a tray of steaming cups. “And you must also tell me what you think of our local tea.” He fixed Spence with a steely smile. “What say, old boy? Mind you, I will insist on your
complete
honesty.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Something was very wrong with Ripton.

At first, during their silent journey back to Morrell’s, Amanda assumed it was disappointment that accounted for his silence. To have come so close to catching the impostor, only to have missed him by mere hours! Or perhaps he was distressed at having been forced to send to the hotel for their passports so the inspector might copy down their information. He wished their search to remain discreet, after all.

That she bore his sulking silence so well made her proud of herself. Many women, having been kissed in public, would demand a
small
bit of affection afterward—or, at the very least, a gentlemanly apology! But she was content to wait until his ill temper subsided.

But when he excused himself for the evening—advising her to order her supper up to her room, for he would not be visiting the dining room himself—her patience edged into hurt. Indeed, as she watched him limp off down the corridor, she found herself properly offended. He had kissed her! The least he could do was acknowledge it, instead of abandoning her at her suite with the same cold indifference he might show a stranger!

In the late of night, her wounded feelings yielded to self-recrimination. She was a
fool
. How many cads would it take to educate her on the stupidity of trusting a man? Not that she had supposed Ripton’s kiss to
mean
anything—only, it had been the most magical kiss, and she’d thought . . .

Well, if it had left her shaken and dizzy and perhaps, oh, a
touch
weak in the knees, she’d supposed it might have affected him similarly. Of course, she was not so foolish as to hope it betokened . . .
feelings
. That would simply be absurd. She had no interest in a man who kidnapped women!

Who kidnapped women whom he believed to be involved in shady business that prevented him from finding his cousin.

No!
She would not excuse his sins. Nothing could justify such a high-handed, illegal act.

No matter if that act had guaranteed her passage to England, when otherwise she might still be mired in Syra, unemployed, penniless, helpless . . .

Well, she wanted
nothing
from him. It was ridiculous to imagine that she might have feelings for him, or he for her.

Though it would not be out of
all
experience to . . . develop feelings . . . so quickly. Romeo and Juliet had loved at first sight.

Yes, and look how that ended!

She woke in the morning grumpy and red-eyed from broken sleep. Ripton’s mood, when she met him in the lobby, seemed to match hers. He remained very curt as he oversaw the transfer of their luggage to their new vessel, a sleek steamer by the name of the
Augusta,
which promised a much reduced passage to London via Gibraltar. “Five days,” bragged the captain as they boarded, “or your tickets refunded! Nobody has beaten my record.”

As they followed a steward to their cabins, she noticed that Ripton’s limp had worsened. “Did you speak to the hotel doctor last night?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did he give you any—”

“I’m fine.”

The steward chose this moment to open the nearest door, revealing a small, neat stateroom with a proper four-poster bed. “One of our finest,” the man assured her, causing gratitude and pleasure to drown out her momentary pique. There had been no call for Ripton to be so generous with her accommodations.

Smiling, she turned to thank him—and found him staring at her, a strange look on his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

To the steward, he flipped a coin and said, “We’re through with you, thank you.” And then, turning back to her, he asked, “Where’s the ring?”

Unease darted through her. “Why?”

“I’d like to see it again.”

“But why?”

His steely stare was a reply of its own.

She took a deep breath. “I gave it to the boy. On Mr. Papadopoulos’s ship, before we disembarked.”

His eyes narrowed. “How curious.”

“I thought he could sell it, if he needed.”

“And here I thought
you
needed money. Wasn’t there some plan to sell your gown?”

She felt her face warm. It was not gentlemanly of him to remind her of those intentions. “Yes, but I’ll wager that boy needs money more than I do. Nobody, you’ll note, is trying to whip
me
!”

“But someone did,” he said flatly. “Didn’t they?”

His manner began to alarm her. She retreated a step into the cabin, taking hold of the door so she might slam it in his face if need be. “Yes. My employer, in fact.”

His eyes briefly widened. And then his face went blank.

The reaction left her obscurely disappointed. What had she wanted? An expression of sympathy? A sign of caring?

One kiss, and she imagined them . . .
friends
. Irked by her own naïveté—was there no end to it?—she started to pull shut the door.

But he caught it and held it open. “Mrs. Pennypacker. The renowned memoirist. You say she
beat
you.”

The derisive edge in his voice lit her temper like a match to gas. “Yes, and so she did! Now you know why she can’t keep a secretary in her service! And now, sir, I will bid you good day!”

But his grip on the door resisted her fierce effort to close it. “You’re not lying.”

Was that a question? His intonation was so even that she could not say. “No, I’m not lying! What cause have I to lie? Heavens, isn’t it embarrassing enough to admit that I stayed in the employ of a woman who thrashed me? What possible reason could I have to lie about that?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “But you
didn’t
stay in her employ, did you?”

The accusation in his voice undid her. She smacked his hand, hard. “Let go!”

“Answer me!”

“Answer you
what
? No, I didn’t stay! Yes, I am a
dreadful
woman, a low, base schemer—for when given a choice between a crotchety old dragon too fond of her switch, and a man who said he was a viscount—who said he would love me and cherish me for a lifetime—I chose the viscount!”

He let go of the door. “A man whom you did not love,” he said, but his voice had lost its heat.

She curled her lip. “True. I did not love him in the
least
. I was a
terrible
fraud.” Her own black laugh surprised her. “Truly terrible, now I come to think of it—for I didn’t even manage the fraud correctly. I found
myself
the dupe, didn’t I? Waiting at church for three hours, so certain he would appear . . .”

His expression softened. But she did not like this new look one bit.

“Don’t you
dare
pity me! After all, if you tell the truth,
you’re
the viscount. In which case, you’d best guard your virtue. I am, after all, a grasping, scheming harlot! Perhaps that kiss yesterday was the first step in my seduction! Perhaps you’d best lock your door tonight lest I come in and
ravish
you!”

He stepped backward at that, exhaling audibly. “Miss Thomas—”

His ridiculous formality was the last straw. “Oh, go away,” she said, and slammed the door.

*   *   *

It came to him that he was an ass.

Spence did not precisely understand the reasons
why
he was an ass, and he did not wish to inspect his conviction too closely. But as he stood in the corridor, staring at the featureless surface of her closed door, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he
was
an ass—of the lowest and most wretched variety.

Still, his brain scrambled to provide alternatives. She was lying about her employer. Some unknown confederate—the villain who had schemed with her to defraud Charles—had put those bruises on her.

Hell, for all he knew,
Pennypacker
might be her confederate.

He winced at himself.

All right, so he didn’t believe that.

Very well, he even believed that she was telling the truth about Pennypacker. Evidently the woman was an abusive harpy. And he would do something about that once he was back in England. Such abuse deserved a reckoning, which he would provide.

That did not mean Amanda was telling the truth about how she had gotten his cousin’s ring.

But if she had stolen it from Charles only to give it away, then that made her the most tenderhearted thief in history.

Very well, he supposed a thief could be tenderhearted. That did not make her any less a criminal.

But it certainly made her harder for him to . . . dismiss.

As he turned and walked down the hall toward his cabin, one thing became starkly clear to him: he could not touch her again. Not when one single hot kiss had so thoroughly corrupted his wits.

God save him, but he did not like this new view of himself: baffled, frustrated,
tempted
.
This was not who he was. He was stern. He was decisive. He governed with a firm hand; he was kind when kindness served, and cruel when it did not.

But he was never
tempted
.

Tempted against the voice of reason in his head, and against every wit that urged him to keep his distance from her.

Tempted to turn back around and to knock on her door—to break it down if she did not answer—so he could apologize to her.

And kiss her again.

And do far more than
that
. The bed in her new cabin was large enough for it.

He opened the door to his own cabin and groaned.
This
bed was even larger.

What would the harm be? A shipboard affair
 . . .
a tried-and-true custom, isn’t it?

Right.
That
was likely to happen. Amanda Thomas did not strike him as the sort of worldly sophisticate who would leap at such a proposition. He would not be so reckless as to wager his fortune that her virginity was intact, but he’d certainly wager it on her virtue. She was not a woman prone to fleeting affairs.

No shipboard seduction, then.

And if he meant to keep his mind rather than lose it, that meant no more touching, either.

He fell on the bed and closed his eyes.
God above,
he prayed,
grant me mercy: Let the captain break his own record to London.