A Lady Most Lovely (26 page)

After long, luscious moments, he pulled away. “Here is more of that self-control you berated me for not having,” he said. “You ought to go to bed now.” He motioned toward the other room. “You may take the bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

She looked at him, still dazed. “You want me to go?” Her question came out embarrassingly plaintive.

“I could live for a lifetime off the look you gave me just now,” Tom said, giving a little laugh that only made him wince and press a hand to his ribs. “But yes, I think it’s for the best.”

A curious mixture of relief and disappointment filled her as she left the room, leaving her feeling oddly forlorn as she shut the door behind her.

T
om woke early to the light tapping on the door. He stretched, catching himself as pain shot through his side. Several ribs were cracked, for sure. Spencer’s fist had been too adept at finding his rib cage. Sleeping on the hard floor had done nothing to help matters, but his only other option had been the small sofa, which would only have held about half of him.

The knock on the door was repeated, heavier this time. Tom was about to call out that he was coming, but he checked himself and went silently instead. Early dawn was barely lighting the sky. There was a good chance Margaret was still asleep, and Tom didn’t want to wake her. He hoped that one of them had gotten some rest, anyway.

He riffled his hands through his hair and tucked his shirt into his trousers so that he would look somewhat presentable, although he suspected it was probably just a servant at the door. He was right. He unbolted the door and looked out to see his valet, John Stephens. “I apologize for disturbing you so early, sir.” He extended a note.
“This just came for you, and I thought you would want to see it right away.”

Tom took the note and read the return address. “Good Lord,” he muttered. He opened the door. “Come in, Stephens.”

Stephens entered, and Tom saw him take note of the sofa cushion on the floor, the boots set to one side of the stuffed chair, and other evidence that Tom had made his bed in here last night. But his valet said nothing. He also kept his face turned away from the bedroom door—probably in case the new Mrs. Poole should step out in her nightclothes without warning. Stephens was the soul of tact.

Tom tore open the note.

Sir,

Please do me the honor of calling on my house at your earliest convenience. There are important matters we ought to discuss—things that cannot wait until after your felicitous honeymoon.

Your servant,

Richard Spencer

Tom made a sound of contempt. Spencer was issuing orders to him. It may be phrased as a request, but it would be foolish of Tom not to heed it. He’d do whatever was necessary to keep Spencer quiet about Lizzie’s past.

The train to Lincolnshire left at half past one, and Tom and Margaret planned to be on it. There was still time for him to see Spencer first. The problem was, he needed to change his clothes, and everything was in the room where Margaret was sleeping.

He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the fireplace. The banked coals were warm enough to ignite the paper, and Tom watched while it burned. “Wait here,” he told Stephens. He went to the bedchamber door, put his ear to it, and listened. There was no sound within, no rustling noises to indicate she was up and about. His hand hovered above the door handle while he considered the propriety of going inside.
She’s your wife,
he told himself.
You have every right to go in there.
Even so, he felt like an intruder as he carefully opened the door and peered inside.

She lay on her side with her back toward the door. Instantly the sight of her sent a visceral jolt of need through him. He stood, watching her for several moments, drinking in the sight of her. The blankets rose and fell with regular rhythm, showing the steady breathing of sleep.

Quietly Tom crossed the room to the wardrobe. From this vantage point he could see Margaret’s face. She looked unbelievably angelic, her usual guarded expression relaxed by sleep and lit by the soft glow of the banked fire. Tom found he had to work hard to steady his own, irregular breathing. He turned back to the task at hand.

The wardrobe opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, and Tom pulled out a coat and a clean shirt. That would have to do for now. As he stepped aside to close the wardrobe door, he accidentally brushed against a pair of boots standing next to it. One boot fell over with a thud. Margaret’s eyes flew open, and she instinctively drew the blankets to her chin.

“I’m sorry to have awakened you,” Tom said. “I’ve
only come in for a few things.” He held up the clothes in his hand as proof.

She pushed back a lock of hair, her eyes still heavy with sleep. “Are you going out?”

“Only for an hour or so.” In reality, he had no idea how long this errand would take.

Margaret sat up. She was careful to keep the blanket pulled up high, although her modesty was already protected by a nightdress that covered everything, including her arms and her lovely neck. Her dark braid fell forward on her chest. Tom found the sight of her indescribably alluring, even though she was primly surrounded by the counterpane and pillows and miles of nightdress. “I don’t think I can sleep anymore,” she said. “Will you send Bessie to me when you leave?”

“Of course.” He dragged his eyes from where her braid lay against her soft breasts in order to meet her gaze. Suddenly the room felt far too warm. He slipped out the door and closed it behind him before she could ask any more questions.

Within an hour Tom was standing on the steps of Spencer’s town house. The bell of a nearby church was just striking eight as Tom rapped on the door. While waiting for someone to answer, he distracted himself by watching the comings and goings on the street. There were already plenty of people about—up and down the street, butchers, grocers, and dairy maids were delivering their goods to waiting recipients below stairs.

It was too early for callers, of course. Even so, Tom did not have to wait long before the door opened and a butler stood looking at him without any sense of surprise. “May I help you, sir?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Spencer. He is expecting me.”

The butler held out a silver tray to receive Tom’s calling card. Tom stared at the tray in irritation. The butler had to know very well who was going to be calling at this hour; Spencer would have told him. Swallowing a caustic comment to this effect, Tom reached into his pocket for a card—only to realize he had none with him. Stifling an urge to throttle the butler, who was still appraising him coolly, he said, “Please tell Mr. Spencer that Tom Poole is calling.”

“Of course, sir.” The butler opened the door wide and ushered Tom into the front hall.

Tom waited while the man disappeared up the stairs under the pretense of seeing “whether Mr. Spencer was at home.” It would all be laughable if it wasn’t so deadly serious. From somewhere down the hall he could hear a clock idly ticking the seconds by while Tom tried to imagine once more how this interview might go.

At last the butler reappeared, descending the stairs with stately gravity. “If you will follow me, sir,” he announced.

Two flights of stairs later, the butler paused at a door that was flanked by two tall footmen. As though Spencer felt he needed personal protection from him. Well, thought Tom, perhaps he did.

“Come!” said a voice from inside, in response to the butler’s light knock.

Spencer’s bedchamber was large and ornate, with heavily gilded wallpaper and velvet window curtains that were probably as thick as the exterior walls. Spencer lay in the middle of the four-poster bed. He turned a cold glare on Tom, despite the quantity of bandages
that covered his head and nose. Evidence of a physician’s ministrations stood on the night table in the form of several bottles and small vials of potion.

“Mr. Poole, how nice of you to visit,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He ended the sentence with a small, painful-sounding cough. “I expect you are here to ask after my health.”

“If you thought that, you wouldn’t have posted two guards outside the door.”

“One can never be too careful.” He lifted a hand, which was bandaged around the knuckles. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Tom took the chair indicated. He was willing to play Spencer’s games up to a point, but no further. “Why did you ask me to come here?” He deliberately phrased the question that way, refusing to admit that Spencer’s note was tantamount to an order.

“I feel we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Don’t you?”

“You should not have come to the wedding breakfast.”

“Well, you made that abundantly clear,” Spencer replied, touching the bandage on his nose and grimacing.

Tom wanted to add,
You should not have insulted my sister,
but he held his tongue. He wanted Spencer to make the first move.

“Why do you suppose that I, Margaret’s nearest living relative, was not invited to the wedding?” Spencer asked. “I suspect she told you some untruths about our family history.”

“She told me your father forfeited any right to Moreton Hall.”

“It was stolen from him!” Once more Spencer’s words
disintegrated into a fit of coughing, and it took several moments for him to find his breath. “Her grandfather manufactured all kinds of so-called evidence against my father, which he bribed the authorities into accepting without question. They forced him to agree to break the entail.”

“That sounds preposterous to me.”

Spencer snorted. “
Life
is preposterous, Poole. For example, imagine my surprise when I entered that church yesterday to see what kind of man my cousin was marrying, only to find out it was the blackguard who had tried to murder my best friend.” He turned to pick up one of the bottles on the bedside table. Laudanum, probably, Tom thought, or some other painkiller. Spencer drained the contents into his mouth, then carelessly dropped the bottle back on the table. It rattled back and forth a half-dozen times on its rounded edge until finally coming to a stop. Spencer wiped his mouth and leaned heavily back on the pillows. “As I reflect on the matter, however, I see that this marriage is actually a good thing. It can enable us to forge a truce.”

“What kind of ‘truce’?” Tom said suspiciously.

“Margaret’s grandfather brought misfortune to my family with his lies. I, on the other hand, could use the truth to bring misfortune to you.” He lifted his bandaged hand and pointed to Tom. “I could have you arrested.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Plenty of people saw us—it was a fair fight. I might just as well have
you
arrested for causing it.”

Spencer gave a short laugh. “I’m not talking about yesterday. I’m talking about your attempt to kill Freddie Hightower.”

“Hightower died last year of natural causes. I wasn’t even in the country.”

“But you tried to kill him first, back in forty-five. You were dueling—and duels had been outlawed by then. I could have you prosecuted.”

“Go ahead,” Tom challenged. “No court of law will care about that now.”

“Perhaps,” Spencer replied. “But there are plenty of other people who will be interested in the question of
why
you were fighting that duel. Or rather, I should say,
who
was the reason for it.”

Here is was, then. The real reason Spencer had called him here. Lizzie.

“As soon as I saw you at the wedding, I began to put two and two together,” Spencer continued. “Freddie dueled with the brother of a woman whom he’d supposedly wronged. That man was you. You have only one sister, and she is married to a baron. A baron who is also a clergyman. That’s a rather high reputation to uphold, isn’t it? You might be willing to send yourself to the devil, but what about the lofty Lady Somerville? If word got out about her unsavory character—”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Tom gripped the chair, primarily to keep himself from lunging at Spencer’s throat. Hightower had seduced Lizzie with false promises of marriage, then abandoned her like so much worthless rubbish. Tom had worked for years to help her recover from this blot on her past, and she’d finally achieved it with her acceptance by the Thornboroughs and her marriage to Geoffrey. Now her life could be ruined because Tom had been fool enough to marry a woman he’d barely known. He’d selfishly returned to England to see Lizzie,
thinking the danger was past because Hightower was dead. He’d never dreamed the other man present at that duel could end up wishing him ill for more reasons than what had transpired on that November morning seven years ago.

Spencer looked at him smugly, knowing he had Tom in a corner.

“You want money in exchange for your silence,” Tom said flatly.

“You really are a coarse bastard,” Spencer retorted. “You think money is the important thing.”

“What does that mean? That you’re too good for it? That it doesn’t matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Spencer said impatiently. “But what the nouveaux riches like you don’t realize is that the upper class isn’t about wealth. It’s about breeding, titles, and land. You will never be my equal.”