A Good Rake is Hard to Find (12 page)

It was all so familiar. His clean scent: sandalwood and male. His hard body pressed against her soft one.

It had been five years since she'd felt this right. Five years since she'd felt the press of his firm chest against her breasts, the shiver of his hands spread wide over her bottom, the wet heat of his mouth. But here they were, together again as if nothing had changed.

For the life of her, though, she couldn't understand what about that could possibly be wrong. Shutting out the voice of reason that warned her this could be dangerous, she gave herself up to the pure heaven of being held by Freddy again.

Deep in the heart of her, she felt something awaken that had been dormant since she'd lost him.

Teasing him with her tongue, she set her hands free to explore the wide expanse of his shoulders, slipped her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. Shivered as his hand stroked up her side and cupped her breast.

As he kissed his way over her jaw and paused to dip his tongue into the hollow of her collarbone, Leonora let out a sigh. And when his thumb stroked over the peak of her nipple she bit back a cry. Her body was on fire. Alive with wanting him.

From some distant corner of her mind she heard voices, and though the haze of sensuality still lingered, she tried to hear what they were saying.

“Sir Gerard has asked me to move the package. I think it's making him nervous what with all the questions. Meet me on Thursday morning and we'll see to it.”

“Can't blame 'em for asking, I suppose,” said another voice. “I'd do the same thing if it was my brother.”

Then the door to Sir Gerard's study opened with a loud click followed by a sharp burst of surprised laughter. “I might have known Freddy Lisle would find a quiet corner,” said a low voice as the door closed. “He always had a way with the ladies,” she heard his companion snigger before their voices faded away.

With the interruption, the gauzy nostalgia that had cocooned them dissolved, and as if by mutual decree both Leonora and Freddy pulled back slightly. Leonora rested her forehead against the disheveled ruin of his cravat while he rested his chin on the top of her head. Their breathing was a little ragged.

“I think we fooled them,” Leonora said, pulling back further, and slipping out of the warm circle of his arms. Though he did so with obvious reluctance, Frederick let her go.

“Let's hope so,” he said, straightening his coat and sliding a hand over the surface of his golden-brown curls. “I recognized their voices—Lord Darleigh and Sir Richard Ewell. Not men I'd trust with the true reason for our being in this room.”

At the mention of Lord Darleigh, Leonora frowned. “My brother spoke of Lord Darleigh in his journal,” she said with excitement. “I hadn't realized he was a member of the club.”

Frederick's head snapped back as if she'd struck him. “What journal?” he demanded. “Why is this the first time I'm hearing of it?”

His ferocity startled her. “Because I forgot about it in all the excitement of the day,” she said mildly, despite her fluttering heart. “I found it last night in my brother's rooms. It was hidden in a secret compartment behind his desk.”

Quickly, she explained to him about the second break-in and how her brother's bedchamber had been ransacked. And that this time the safe had been taken.

“Leonora, how is this person able to get into your father's house so easily? Are there no locks on the doors?” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I do not like you staying there when it is so clearly not secure.”

“I believe I discovered the problem,” she assured him, touched by his concern for her. “Jonny often liked to leave his bedchamber window open to get some fresh air. And there is a trellis just outside. A trellis we both took shameless advantage of when we were younger. I feel sure that whoever did this, is climbing into the room and then back out again with no one the wiser.”

Freddy swore. “I hope you've locked the window now,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “I greatly dislike the idea of you there where anyone might simply climb into your home and spirit you away when no one is looking.”

“It is locked now,” Leonora said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes at his exaggerated concern. Really, she was perfectly able to look after herself.

“Good,” he said, pulling her to him. “I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. We must endeavor to keep you safe through all of this or I will forbid you from continuing to participate.”

She pulled away, her eyes wide. “You wouldn't dare! I'm a grown woman and I am quite capable of—”

“Of course you are,” he assured her calmly. “But even you are not indestructible. And your brother has already lost his life in this fiasco. I simply wish to keep you safe, Nora.”

His use of her nickname melted her despite the fury his ordering her about had caused. She supposed now wasn't the time for protesting anyway. Until he actually did something, it was still just a threat.

“Back to my brother's journal,” she said pointedly.

As if he too were ready to put their cross words behind him, he asked, “What did it say? Did you read it?”

Leonora raised an imperious brow. “Of course I read it. And it had very little to say on the subject of the club. Only a few mentions here and there of Sir Gerard and that reference to Lord Darleigh—it was barely a sentence, really. Jonny said that Lord Darleigh was helping him locate a ledger of some sort.”

Frederick's brows drew together. “And did he ever locate it?”

“No, as it happens,” she replied with a shrug. “That notation was made on the day before he was killed. So I have no idea whether it was found or not. But perhaps I could ask Lord Darleigh about it later.”

But Frederick was already shaking his head. “Better let me do it,” he said with a grimace. “I'm afraid Darleigh isn't best known for his manners where ladies are concerned.”

Leonora put her hands on her hips. “Are you suggesting I am incapable of handling an ill-mannered gentleman, because I can assure you that I've grown quite accustomed to it in the years you were away?”

“Why the devil would you?” he asked, not bothering to apologize for the profanity. “You're a lady poet, not a Bow Street runner.”

Oh, poor misguided man. “Surely you must have read the papers when you were in Paris,” she said calmly. “I became something of a thorn in the side of the Tories when I spoke out about the disgraceful way married ladies are treated by the laws of this country. I received quite a bit of unpleasant mail.”

“Spoke out
how
”? he asked with deceptive calm.

“Just a few well-placed essays in ladies' magazines,” Leonora said, feeling a little defensive. It wasn't her fault that Frederick hadn't bothered to keep up with the papers in his absence from London. Besides, it was none of his affair, really. “And my last book of poems was an epic ballad about famous heroines in history. And may have included a verse praising Judith over her treatment of Holofernes.”

Frederick swore. “Didn't you think this was something I should know about before I brought you here? My cousin is many things, but a champion of rights for women is not one of them. His views are such that he might very well have barred us entrance to his home over it!”

“But he didn't,” Leonora said, placing a placating hand on his arm. “Indeed, I think my reputation has stood me in good stead here. At least two of the ladies complimented me on my poem that appeared in the
Ladies' Journal
last month.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Clearly he was still agitated, but rather than divulge his thoughts, Frederick took her arm in his and offered her his arm.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To make our good-byes,” he replied, leading her back to the drawing room. “I think our business is done here for now. And I am suddenly fearful for your safety in this house. I knew that as Jonathan's sister you were at risk, but it never occurred to me that you might be a target because of your writing.”

And with that, they left.

*   *   *

As they rode through the streets of Mayfair, the horses' hooves on the cobblestones making a distinctive clip-clop, Frederick fumed over what Leonora had revealed to him.

First of all, there was the fact that she'd kept her discovery of Jonny's journal from him. He'd known from both his own history with her and Jonny's hair-raising tales of their childhood that Leonora was as headstrong as they came. But he'd not expected her to keep information from him right from the start of their new partnership. Most troubling at all was the way his heart had clenched on learning she'd held back the find from him. It felt like such a betrayal in light of all they'd been through together. He thought they were working together as a team, but at the heart of things she simply did not trust him.

It might be a false betrothal they were engaged in, but there was a part of him—a much larger part than he'd realized—that wanted it to be real. He could admit that now. He wanted to claim her as his own in the most public of ways. Not only out of affection for her, which he did indeed feel, but also out of some primitive need to mark his territory.

It was nothing he could—or would—ever tell Leonora. If she was indeed the woman who had become known to the press as Miss Bluestocking—he had read the essays while he was in France, he simply hadn't known they were written by Leonora—then she would reject him if she knew how like an animal she made him feel.

It didn't matter that he did his best by every woman he came into contact with. What she'd remember was that he had, in a moment of weakness, wanted all the rights over her a legal marriage would afford him.

A fool's errand if ever there was one.

“You're still angry, I suppose,” Leonora said from the opposite seat of the carriage.

The top of the barouche had been lifted and now covered them from the prying eyes of passersby. Thus it was impossible for Frederick to read her expression. Acting on instinct rather than common sense, he took both her hands in his and pulled her over onto the seat beside him.

“Not angry,” he said, lifting her into his lap. “Worried about you.”

“I've done a good job of taking care of myself in the past five years, Frederick,” she responded sharply, though she rested her cheek against his chest. “There's little reason to think that I will suddenly become enfeebled because you've returned home.”

“It's not just that and you know it, Leonora,” he said, his exasperated voice in contrast to the comforting arms that held her. “Has it even occurred to you that Jonathan's death perhaps had nothing to do with the Lords of Anarchy? That it could have been one of your detractors who killed him?”

Her sharp intake of breath told him that this was a line of inquiry that she'd not considered before now. He regretted frightening her, but even so, the idea of just how little she valued her own neck made him incredibly angry.

“But surely it was Sir Gerard,” she protested. “After all, the driving club was the most dangerous thing that my brother was involved with.”

“It very well might have been,” he responded with feeling. “But that doesn't mean that they are necessarily responsible for his death. My cousin is nothing if not brilliant. He will have already thought through all the pros and cons of the situation. Whether he's acted upon them is another matter altogether. He might be responsible for killing Jonathan, but so too might any crank who feels he owes you an ill turn because of your political views. God knows there are enough of them walking about the streets of London.”

She was silent for a moment. Which made him nervous even as he cradled her against him.

“It is true,” she finally admitted, “that I have received some threatening letters thanks to my essays, but those were always threats against Miss Bluestocking. Not me, or my actual family. The writers never even knew my direction. They were sent to the offices of the journal, and my editor forwarded them.

“I think what really bothers you about my essays,” she continued, “is not that they put me in danger, but that I didn't tell you about them.”

She leaned back to get a closer look at his expression. Which he kept carefully neutral lest she see that she'd hit a nerve.

“Don't be absurd,” he said with studied calm. “I am concerned for your safety and that's all. What do I care what you were up to while I was away in France?”

“If we are going down that road,” she said, toying with the pin in his cravat. “Then I might begin to wonder how you were spending your time while you were away. Who you were … seeing.” The pause was a speaking one. And opened up a line of questioning with which he was decidedly uncomfortable.

Sighing, he decided to concede. A bit.

“You may be right that I dislike not being taken into your confidence about your political writings,” he admitted. “But that doesn't negate the fact that your writings could very well have put you in danger. And I won't apologize for being worried about your safety. I would hardly be any sort of man if I shrugged my shoulders and went about my business upon learning that my fianc
é
e had received threats because of her political leanings.” He slid a finger beneath her chin and tipped her head so that he could see into her eyes. “I never stopped caring for you, Leonora. Not even after you sent me away. It's always been you.”

Her lashes lowered. “I wish I could believe that,” she said, biting her lip. “I wish—”

The carriage pulled to a stop then, and he bit back a curse because the moment was lost.

She drew back and settled onto the seat beside them as she waited for the footman to open the door.

Taking advantage of the moment, he gave in to temptation and kissed her with every bit of the emotion and desire he'd been unable to give words to.