A Well Pleasured Lady (13 page)

But he had to get inside. He stared at the stone wall before him and the windows one story over his head, then took the coil of rope off his shoulder. He swung the grappling hook above his head. The rope slithered out, the hook caught on the jutting windowsill with a
satisfying thunk, and he thanked God for his early experiences on the docks. He hadn't thought so at the time, but the physical labor he'd done to establish his empire had more than once proved useful.

The rope was just long enough, reaching within four feet of the ground. Yanking on it, he tested the hook's hold, and when he was satisfied, he hoisted himself up. Using hands on the rope and feet against the wall, he climbed until he reached the window. With one hand clutching the rope, he shoved at the window until he had an opening large enough to fit his body through, and crawled inside.

Two maids spoke outside the door. Inside, a fire burned on the hearth, the master bed looked too impressive for Bubb, and the light of the candles showed Sebastian a myriad of hiding places. He moved silently, searching the shelves and drawers for a black leather book.

He found several, his breath catching each time. Was this it? Would he be able to take it and leave with Mary…and never see her again?

Funny how that concept gave him no gratification. Indeed, each time he opened one of the books and saw the typeset pages and the name of a London publisher, he was almost pleased.

Then, as he searched the bed table, he found another, filled with handwritten scrawls, and for one moment his hands tightened in anticipation.

But this wasn't his godmother's handwriting, and turning to the fly page, he saw Nora's name penned in
blue ink. Disgusted, he tossed it back and finished searching the chamber.

Nothing. Just like the study, only the study held that safe, the likely repository of the diary. Unfortunately, without Mary's safecracking abilities, he could not examine the contents. That perturbed him; he had suddenly developed qualms about using Guinevere Mary Fairchild's skills to their fullest extent. When had he grown so squeamish?

After taking care to leave no trace of his presence within the chamber, he inched out of the window and pulled it shut behind him. With the rope in his hands, he began to lower himself. His feet walked down the wall, taking part of his weight and balancing him, but still his arms ached from the unaccustomed exercise. A man in his late thirties had no business climbing around the outside of a country manor. He should be home in front of a fire, looking at the face of a woman…

Mary. Why did his mind call up Mary? Why wouldn't he use her to open that safe? His scruples surely couldn't be caused by an inappropriate attachment. Damn her, she confused him with that facade of sterling propriety which so overlaid the passions of a decade.

He grunted as he descended.

For years she'd done a fine imitation of a woman dedicated to nothing but respectability. Well, he could understand that. Mary undoubtedly felt she had plenty to hide, and no one knew better than he the
lengths one would go to right the wrongs of yesteryear.

There! That was the problem. He felt empathy for her. He felt he understood her—as if any man could ever understand a woman. He certainly desired her, but her blow to his face had caused him to take stock. If he did as his desires demanded, he would take her virginity, ruin her reputation—even more than he already had—and possibly impregnate her, all without any intention to do the honorable thing and wed her.

Yet when he'd seen her in the ballroom tonight talking to her too-bloody-handsome cousin, all he could think of was holding her against all comers, as if she were a merchant ship and he still a youth desperate to forge his fortune. Seen as a Fairchild, she didn't deserve that much regard, but seen as Guinevere Mary, she deserved…everything.

His hands tightened and slipped at the frayed end of the rope, and he realized with surprise he had reached the ground. He hadn't thought he'd climbed down far enough, and that was something else he could blame on Mary. He wasn't paying attention, and all because she had confused him. Lowering his feet, he expected to find solid earth.

It wasn't there.

As he registered the fact he was still much too high on the house, two hands grabbed him from below and jerked. He lost his grip and hit the ground flat on his back. Before he could do more than gasp for air, a meaty fist hauled him up by the shirt. He swung out
instinctively and felt a solid crack as his fist made contact with bone.

His assailant grunted, loosened his grip, and while Sebastian hung unbalanced, the attacker struck him in the nose.

This wasn't like the blow from Mary. This man was a fighter; he knew exactly what he was doing. As Sebastian struggled to stand, the assailant punched him in the chin. Sebastian's head snapped back. He collided with the wall as the attacker swung him up against it. A well-muscled arm leaned against Sebastian's windpipe. A face, hidden by a scarf and by darkness, leaned close to his.

Slowly, in a hoarse voice, the man said, “If you hurt her again, I'll kill you.”

Sebastian could scarcely speak for the blood that flowed from his nose. “What…?”

The attacker drew back his fist and rammed it into Sebastian's stomach.

“Don't play stupid with me. Everyone in Sussex has heard how you treated her.”

The arm across his throat tightened until Sebastian gagged.

“Mary Fairchild is not for you. Leave her alone.”

A housekeeper moves silently about her duties.

Mary straightened her dark gown, adjusted the mobcap covering her springy curls, then pushed open the kitchen door. Most of the Fairchild servants sat huddled around the fire or catching a hasty bite at the long-scrubbed table. Nostalgia struck her when she heard the low buzz of conversation; just so had her own dear attendants sounded in Scotland. The scents of toast and fried rashers wafted toward her as she made her way to the empty chair. As she hoped, no one paid the slightest attention to her.

No one except Mrs. Baggott.

Mary expected no less. The meals were exquisite, the party last night had run smoothly, the manor shone from top to bottom. Mrs. Baggott was a premier housekeeper, and a premier housekeeper knew every person who walked through her domain. She stood close to the stove where pots of oatmeal
bubbled and watched Mary now with narrowed eyes. Obviously she couldn't quite place her, but Mary knew that state of blessed anonymity wouldn't last long, so she smiled.

Mrs. Baggott lurched as recognition struck, then she bustled forward. “Miss Fairchild! What's wrong that you're awake so early?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Mary laid a hand on Mrs. Baggott's arm. “I'm hungry, so I came to breakfast.”

Never had Mary seen appalled suspicion so hastily disguised. Mrs. Baggott didn't believe her, but she wouldn't insult her by saying so. Instead she smiled, the wrinkles on her craggy face splitting into thin snips of courtesy, and said, “Please, take a seat in the dining room, Miss Fairchild, and I'll attend to your needs personally.”

“No, no.” Mary walked to the table and pulled up a chair. “I don't want to put you out. I'll just sit here.”

The servants backed away as if she were a vampire in search of blood, but Mary didn't care. She'd escaped into her chamber last night staggering from the shock of seeing that valet in the corridor. She'd tried to convince herself he wasn't really who she thought he was, and when that failed, she'd curled herself around the pillow that carried Sebastian's scent and prayed.

But the habit of rising with the dawn stood her in good stead. She woke before the first rays of the sun
and knew what she had to do. She had to use the skills she'd learned as a housekeeper to find that diary and steal it back. It was the only way to escape this purgatory before it became her prison.

Mary smiled around at her unwilling audience briefly, until Mrs. Baggott dismissed the servants with a snap of her fingers. “The dining room is so much more comfortable, Miss Fairchild, but if you insist, you can, of course, eat here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Baggott. I always ate breakfast in the kitchen of Lady Valéry's home in Scotland.”

The servants glanced among each other, clearly wondering if she'd run mad.

Determinedly cheerful, Mary continued, “It's a bit of a backwater there, you understand, but this is a pleasant habit I would be loath to abandon.”

Silent, Mrs. Baggott placed a heaping plate of golden eggs, deviled kidneys, and crumpets with marmalade in front of her. Mary took a bite of the kippers. “The housekeeper in Scotland always kept me company, too.”

“Well.” Mrs. Baggott carried two teacups to the table and sat down, her chair creaking. “I'm glad we can make you feel at home.”

Mary left the kitchen that morning alight with a sense of triumph. Mrs. Baggott had sat with her for the whole breakfast, and they'd much in common. Not that Mary told her she had been a housekeeper. Oh, no. On that subject, she took Ian's advice and kept silent. But Mrs. Baggott assumed that Mary had
been the mistress of a large household, and Mary let her assume what she wished.

After asking for directions from a servant only once, she slipped back into her bedchamber. Looking worried and tapping her foot, Jill swung around as Mary shut the door behind herself.

“Miss Fairchild! What are you doing out at such an hour?” Jill ran her astonished gaze over Mary's outfit. “And dressed in such a garb!”

“I just went for a walk,” Mary said soothingly.

“Without me? Unchaperoned?” Jill bustled toward Mary. “Miss Fairchild, you know better. What would the gentry say?”

“Nothing, if you don't tell them.” Mary looked at the handful of papers Jill held. “What are those?”

“Love letters, I suppose, from your suitors. The servants have been slipping them under the door. That's what woke me.” Jill handed over the stiff, sealed sheets. “ 'Tis the only reason I knew you were gone.”

“Yes, I had hoped you'd sleep. You were up late waiting for me last night.” Mary seated herself in a comfortable chair and looked through the notes. All the sealing wax had impressions on them. All except one. She put it aside for last.

“Sleep through your absence? Why would I want to? Miss Fairchild, don't you realize your position here? You're the heiress. One of these men could come along, bop you on the head, and carry you off ere anyone knew it.”

Aggass, Mary thought, noting the design pressed in the wax on the first note. “I think we can acquit all of these gentlemen of being early risers,” she said to Jill.

“For a fortune, any one of them would get up early of a morning. They'd kidnap you, and where would I be, I ask you? Where would I be?”

“With a new mistress?” Mary guessed.

“Not likely.” Jill snorted. “After Lady Valéry had taken my guts for garters, your Viscount Whitfield would take his turn. There wouldn't be enough of me left to serve another.”

Indigestion, Mary diagnosed, and opened the one from Mr. Mouatt. “Lady Valéry would be unpleasant, but I doubt that she'd kill you.”

“You didn't mention Viscount Whitfield,” Jill said shrewdly. “And, mistress, don't you see? All any of the men need to do is catch you and drag you away to have his way with you, and you'll have to marry him.”

“Dear, that's just not likely.” These notes were all nonsense, and Mary began to suspect they had been written, not by the suitors themselves, but by their
secretaries. “Who would even realize I was away from my bedchamber?”

“Promise me you won't go again.”

“I can't make that promise.”

“Then I'll go with you.”

“No! Jill, I was a housekeeper, and have walked the corridors alone all those many years. More than once some gentleman saw an opportunity for fun, and believe me, I know how to scream loudly and use whatever is available in way of a weapon.” She opened the last note, the one without a seal in the wax. Looking up, she smiled at Jill, then saw the girl was wringing her hands in distress, and felt contrition. Her maid was really worried. “Truly, Jill, all will be well. I feel it.”

Raising the paper, she read the words before her, and realized that never had she been so wrong.

It held only one word.

Murderess.

 

There she went again.

Dressed in coarse, dark clothing, Mary had crept downstairs early every morning for the past three days. She had glanced behind her occasionally, as if she were guilty, or as if she feared something, but always she disappeared into the kitchen. Ian would have never noticed, except that he'd been getting nowhere in his seduction of her.

He hated that. A sense of failure nagged at him, one made more troublesome by the fact he liked the woman. He would have thought he was immune
to any Fairchild lady, regardless of her looks or charm.

Mary was different. She admired him. She didn't seem to see the darkness that plagued his soul, and paid no attention to the sniggering caused by his illegitimacy. She was just what she had accused him of being—nice—and he almost hated himself for plotting her downfall.

That guilt had caused him to drink so much the first night of the house party that he'd fallen asleep on one of the sofas in the great hall. He didn't know why he'd woken when she tiptoed past; he liked to imagine it was the bond between their souls.

He used to think that, until he saw her with that wretch Whitfield.

She loved Whitfield. Ian didn't think she knew it, but her emotions, unrealized and unacknowledged, made Ian's scheme to wed her all the more nefarious. Still, he had to follow through.

So he followed Mary every morning and watched her disappear into the kitchen, and he plotted. Should he kidnap her? Should he entice her? Should he “inadvertently” ruin her reputation?

Ah, but Whitfield had already done that, and that irked him. Ian was no different from any other man. He would like to have a woman who adored him, but Mary adored Whitfield. He would like to have a woman untouched by a man, but Mary had been touched, and more, by Whitfield. He would like to have a woman with money…ah, money.

Moving away from the kitchen door, Ian waited for that delightful little serving maid to come out. Sally had been easily seduced into doing his bidding, and this morning she would give her first report on Mary's conversation with the housekeeper.

Whitfield might have won her favor, but he wouldn't get the money. Not if Ian had anything to say about it.

 

Daisy's bedchamber.

Sebastian put his hand on the knob and stared down at it grimly. Another room. Another search. And, he feared, another failure to find Lady Valéry's diary.

Hell, he already knew where it was. It had to be in that safe in Bubb's study. So he'd tried opening the safe again. After all, Mary had thought she might be able to do it, and surely he was as accomplished as any woman. Instead, the lock had held fast, and here he was, getting ready to search another bedchamber in the west wing.

Turning the knob, he strolled in as if he owned the place. His experience—and he'd had a lot of it lately—proved that walking boldly was more effective than sneaking. Certainly a lordly attitude made explaining himself to the chambermaids less imperative.

Fortunately for him, the sun's fading rays showed him that this room seemed uninhabited. He called, “Excuse me? Are you here?” in a falsely impatient tone, but nothing stirred. The bed's pink ruffled
curtains were drawn and petticoats were scattered about the floor. It appeared Daisy's maid had sneaked off rather than pick up.

Good luck for a change, and about time.

He normally investigated the bookcase first, but there wasn't one. Moving to the bedside table, he fumbled with the half-opened drawer instead. Brushes laden with long blond hair lay scattered, and he shoved them aside with distaste as he rummaged for the diary.

Nothing.

Rubbing his aching jaw, he glanced toward the dresser. Fringed shawls and lace handkerchiefs spilled out of it in such disarray, the drawers seemed to have burped.

God, he was sick of this endless pawing through others' belongings. Not that some of his finds hadn't been interesting. Uncle Burgess kept a large store of laudanum hidden in the back of his closet. Bubb's twins stole freely from the guests and sequestered their ill-gotten gains in an attic room. The eldest daughter smoked opium. Wilda kept a young man's lock of hair pressed between the pages of her journal. Ian…He'd discovered nothing about Ian. Ian lived in a room furnished so starkly, Sebastian thought he'd entered the wrong chamber. But no, the man had either been refused the luxuries so esteemed by the rest of the family, or he deliberately lived like an illegitimate son to remind himself of his place.

If only Sebastian could believe he had been refused. But seeing Ian, his restraint, the way he
watched the others so hungrily, Sebastian knew the man was dangerous.

And Sebastian wondered if Ian had been the fiend who'd beaten him so severely. He didn't think so. He'd made contact with his attacker's face, he knew he had, but Ian showed no signs of bruising.

No one at the party showed any signs of bruising—except him.

He normally healed quickly, but the swelling from Mary's blows had just gone down when he'd been jerked off that rope and been thrashed again. In the space of three days, accomplished street fighter Sebastian Durant had been battered by a woman and a…a stranger.

A stranger who had warned him away from Mary. And except for brief, respectful contacts, Sebastian had obeyed.

But it irked him. God, how it irked him.

With a sigh, he turned away from the bedside—and felt something crawl up his shoulder. He grabbed at it, whatever it was, and found himself in possession of wiggling fingers.

He looked at them in horror. He held a female's hand.

Its partner caressed the other side of his neck. “Lord Whitfield, you surprise me. I'm afraid I'm not…dressed.”

Aghast, he turned toward the bed. Daisy peeked out from the pink curtains, and she was right. She wasn't dressed. That filmy, silky thing she had draped over her could scarcely be considered clothing.

“Excuse me!” He tried to vault away, but somehow her arms had become entwined around him. “I didn't realize…”

“That I was here? But what were you doing?” Her eyes widened and her lips parted, and she smelled of tobacco.

He hated tobacco.

“Were you looking for a memento of me?” she cooed.

Of course not, you stupid cow,
he wanted to snap.

But he didn't. He was in trouble here, more trouble than when he'd dangled from the rope, and he had to extricate himself as quickly as possible. “You have attracted my attention.” It was only a partial lie. She had been
trying
to attract his attention.

She lowered her eyelids. “I didn't know that you'd noticed.”

“Noticed? I noticed.” He tried to edge away. Her nails bit into his neck. “A man would be hard-pressed not to notice you.”
And run as if the hounds of hell were after him.