Ashlyn Macnamara (31 page)

“For now,” he added, “I think I’d best see you home.”

G
EORGE
might be turning over some sort of plan in his mind, but maybe he was also grateful for the distraction that had forestalled their earlier argument. He was hiding something. Isabelle knew as much without a doubt, the same way she could always tell when Jack had been up to no good. Her son had a particular smile, too broad and innocent to be truthful.
Heavens, Jack
. And when would she have news of her boy?
Please let it be today
.

George, apparently, possessed the same expression. Perhaps all males did.

Dressed now, they walked down the main thoroughfare of the village, George chattering about inconsequentialities and beaming like an idiot. Did he expect her to fall for it?

No doubt he did. She’d fallen for the rest, after all, and let him have her body. Images from the previous night flashed through her mind. Hot, fleshy images accompanied by a melting sensation at her core.

Oh, yes, she’d fall again, given any sort of provocation. He’d awakened something inside her, something insidious and demanding like his talent, only this was a hunger for more of him. If she closed her eyes, she could see the angles and planes of his chest. Her fingers recalled the texture of those muscles. Her tongue recalled
the taste of his skin. A hunger, yes, but one that required all of her senses to fulfill.

All her senses, all her body, all herself. More the fool, she, if she gave in to it. But she would. This compulsion was beyond her resistance.

The note lay just past the threshold when she opened the door. An innocent little folded square of paper, all pristine whiteness, the same sort of stationery as the first. Her pulse throbbed in her neck. This must be news. It had to be.

Pressing a hand to her throat, she snatched it up.

If you want to see your son again, you’ll bring one thousand pounds to the crossroads where the drive from Shoreford house meets the main highway to London. Tomorrow night. Come alone
.

She blinked, but the terse note read the same on the second try. Her legs suddenly refused to support her weight, and she swayed. A pair of strong, long-fingered hands at her waist steadied her.

George. She’d nearly forgotten his presence. “Here. What is that?”

Wordlessly, she handed him the scrap.

“A thousand?” He balled his hand about the paper. “Good God.”

“I haven’t got a thousand,” she replied mechanically. Breathing was difficult when someone had just stuck his fist in your gut. Or perhaps a pole-axe was nearer the mark. “Not tonight. Not even next year.”

“I have.”

“George, no.” She turned. “I cannot take your money. Not after last night. It would make me feel as if you paid me for my favors.”

Pay for her favors, and yet she’d do anything for her son. Could she stoop to selling herself for the money? What was her pride and dignity next to her boy?

He seized her, his long fingers like shackles curled
about her upper arms. She felt as if he could crush her small bones, should the notion take him. “Whatever passed between you and me, Jack’s kidnapping had nothing to do with it. What I—Christ.”

The expression on his face stunned her. Never in all her girlish dreams of a future suitor had she imagined such intensity, such gravitas mixed with pure emotion. The heat in his eyes liquefied their steely gray. It pinned her to the spot, while an answering fire ignited within.

“Let me do this.” Even his words were weighted with whatever had moved him. Lord above, with that voice, the man might entice an angel to sin.

“I need to know why.” How she’d managed such a steady tone, she’d never know. Inside, she was all aquiver.

He reached into his topcoat and withdrew a purse. Its knit sides bulged. He tossed it onto her table, where it met the wood-planked top with a heavy clunk. “I have the blunt. You do not.”

Good Lord, the man carried vast sums in his pockets and cast them away like pence. She placed a hand over her racing heart. “You just happened to be carrying a thousand pounds on your person?”

A taut smile stretched his lips. “I doubt there’s even five hundred there, but it’s a start. And no, I don’t make a habit of carrying so much coin on me.” He waved a hand, the gesture only apparently nonchalant. An odd tension settled over his face, pulling his cheeks rigid. “I won at cards.”

“You must know I cannot repay you.”

G
OOD
God, he was on edge. Only moments ago, he’d nearly spouted his feelings like some hysterical female. Ridiculous. He might well care, might well be prepared to protect her at all costs, might well want to spend every waking minute with her.

Hell, he’d
meant
that proposal, not because he’d spilled inside her, but because of these damnable feelings. And she’d refused to take him seriously.

At any rate, a man didn’t just admit to such things. He expressed them through gifts and through sacrifices and through pleasure rendered. He offered bloody marriage. If worse came to worst, he expressed them through music, but to put them into words?

“I do not require repayment. Your happiness is repayment enough.”

Her chin puckered, and she choked on a sob, falling against his chest, shoulders heaving. He slid his hands to her back, his palms mapping her shoulder blades before slipping upward to tangle in her hair.

What a rotten liar he was. He’d even lied to himself. Feelings be damned. Whatever was welling in him could not be described in such flimsy terms as feelings. In a matter of days, she’d worked her way into his heart with her unique blend of pluck and vulnerability. Raised to be the consummate lady, quiet and dignified, she didn’t wilt beneath the weight of her reduced fortunes.

He looked over the spare room—stone hearth, rustic table and benches, herbs hanging from the ceiling, open cupboard full of vials. This was all she had, and it wasn’t even hers. He could offer her better, offer to take her away from all this and give her some semblance of the life she’d once known.

He had, damn it, and she’d all but turned him down.

Such a tiny thing she was, burrowed against him, and yet she managed to take up his entire heart. She stirred, but instead of nestling closer, she raised her head. Reflexively, his arms tightened, but she resisted, her body going from boneless to just stiff enough to warn him.

She was thankful, but she had not completely surrendered. A well of unshed tears glittered in each eye, but
rather than soften, the liquid had the opposite effect. No frightened doe, his Isabelle.

“I hate it.” She pushed away from him, her kissable mouth firming into a line.

“What do you hate?”

“That I am in a position to take and never give.” She turned slightly, showing him her shoulder and the soft curve of her breast. She wrapped her arms about her waist, hugging herself, replacing his comfort with her own. Proud as any princess, she tipped her nose toward the ceiling.

Yes, he could imagine her in a sumptuous ball gown, standing in the light of a hundred candles, fending off suitors. He’d never have stood a chance.

“I keep no tally, and I ask for nothing in return.”

“That isn’t the point. Even if you ask nothing, I feel the debt, and it rankles.”

“What if …” He fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat. Thank God. He still had Leach’s marker—a long shot, but better than nothing. “What if we can work out where Jack is and you won’t have to pay any ransom?”

Her eyes went round. “How are you going to manage that,” she said faintly, “when there’s been no sign?”

“On the off chance …” He unfolded the scrap of paper. “Leach gave me this the other day, and since he’s gone …”

George lined up the messages and compared the handwriting. Both contained the word
thousand
, and the particular flourish on the upstroke of the D, the sweeping curlicue on the cross of the T, the enlarged loop on the H … Leach had definitely sent the notes, but he couldn’t have been the man who accosted Isabelle in the road. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Isabelle craned her neck. “What is it?”

“The writing’s the same, and yet.” He caught her gaze. “You told me you didn’t know Leach.”

“I don’t. Do you think I’d forget a name like that?”

No, of course she wouldn’t. No one would. “But none of this makes any sense. Why would Leach make off with a random boy from the village? Why would he think such a child might be good to net him a thousand pounds? He’d have to know who you are. It’s almost as if he’s the boy’s father.”

Isabelle stiffened. “Jack’s father disappeared from society about the same time I did.”

“So you’re saying the man’s name cannot be Reginald Leach.”

“Not unless he invented a new one.” She looked away. “Jack’s father went by the name of Roger Padgett.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

P
ADGETT
. G
ODDAMN
him. The man was ever damned to shadow George, it seemed. But who was the real Padgett? George tried to imagine the ape who had beaten him as a seducer of young girls and couldn’t quite manage the feat. The flashy dresser he’d met at Revelstoke’s party, the one who’d charmed Henrietta, stood a far greater chance.

Devil take him, he better not have touched Henny.

“Judging by your expression, you know the man.” Isabelle’s cheeks had gone pink, and she didn’t quite meet his gaze. Yes, she ought to be ashamed. She could have done so much better. “But I don’t understand how.”

Not that he could tell her.
He’s my mistress’s brother—
or so George surmised from the name. Yes, that would go over well. No. God, no.

A sudden chill turned his hands clammy, and another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. No wonder they’d never found Jack in the village. Padgett and his sister wouldn’t keep him there, not when they could take him back to London to that overpriced townhouse in Bedford Street that Lucy had insisted he rent.

“Are you feeling all right? You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head to clear the haze of his whirling thoughts. He could fix this. He could restore Isabelle’s son to her—as long as he kept her from accompanying
him. But how to leave her here alone with no inkling of what he was about? Damnation, what a mess.

“I want to know how you came to be acquainted with Padgett. He can’t run in the same circles you do.”

“When you knew him, did he have a penchant for gambling?” When he wasn’t ruining innocent girls, that was.

“He played cards, same as any gentleman.”

“Yes, well, he might make a living at it now. He’s managed to accumulate a few of my vowels.” Vowels, yes, such as Barnaby Hoskins’s marker. And if Leach were actually Padgett, the bastard was right there when George received the message. He’d probably gloated to himself at the same time he was charming Henrietta.

George ran a hand through his hair. Hang it all, he was going to have to admit his suspicions as to Jack’s whereabouts. As long as he was careful, though, he might still save the situation. He’d have to be damned careful. He was about to make her very angry.

“Given this development”—he measured his words slowly, the better to put off the ultimate admission—“I think I can arrange for Jack’s return without paying the ransom.”

She stiffened, visibly, like a small tremor racking her body. Slowly, she released her grip on herself, and her arms drifted downward. “You know where Jack is.”

He cleared his throat. If only he could draw the moment out forever. If only he could turn back time and hold her once more. For as soon as he responded, she would turn her considerable determination on him. She might well never forgive him.

It was no use. The longer he delayed, the worse her reaction. He nodded. “I have a good idea, yes.”

*  *  *

I
N
his exuberance, Jack had once run headlong into her belly. The force of his head colliding with her gut had forced all the air from her lungs. That burning gasp for air was nothing to how she felt now. She struggled to draw one painful breath.

“What? How?” She was incapable of anything more coherent, despite the jumble of questions that filled her throat.

“Because I know who Roger Padgett is,” he said slowly, as if reluctant to make such an admission.

“So you’ve just said. Something about gambling debts.”

“No, I know more than that. I’ve met the man.”

“When? When would you have met him?”

A dull flush reddened his cheeks. “Yes, well, that’s actually a good question.”

And what on earth was that supposed to mean? She crossed her arms. “Is he one of your cronies?”

But then, that couldn’t be right. Surely she might have crossed paths with George in another life.

“Not a crony, no.” He looked away and raked a hand through his hair, causing it to stand in sandy spikes. “I’d rather not distress you by mentioning the association, but Padgett’s sister is my former mistress.”

At the word, a shiver brought goose bumps to her arms. “I see.”

She shouldn’t care. She most certainly shouldn’t feel anything akin to jealousy. His skill in the bedroom, his clear relish for the female body, hadn’t sprung from nowhere.