Beyond A Wicked Kiss (33 page)

"I will give you the particulars later. All is not ready." Blackwood gave West his darkest, gravest glance. "This will require due care. You cannot be caught."

"I can be, but I will not be."

"Good. Your part must be done before the ambassador's winter ball. I believe he can be made cooperative, but it will fall to you to assure all the details are correct."

West allowed he was more intrigued than alarmed. "And this plan of yours? Will it put a period to the Gentleman Thief's reign of terror on the
ton? "

"Their boudoirs and salons will be made safe again. Ladies will be able to wear their finest jewels and leave their paste with the creditors."

Grinning, West stood. He took his leave after the colonel had asked for and received his promise to join him on Christmas Day for dinner. It was not a difficult promise to give. West already knew there was only one other place he'd rather be.

* * *

Perceval Bartlett, The Right Honorable Viscount Herndon, rose slowly in greeting as West was ushered into his conservatory. The air was redolent of the rich, black planting soil, drooping ferns, and hothouse flowers. Until West entered the room, Herndon had been stooped over a potted orchid, examining the delicate pink petals for flaws. Now his palm gently cupped the corolla, and his thumb lightly passed over the stamen. The impression, from West's vantage point, was of a man reluctant to leave his lover, for there was something unmistakably intimate about the way Herndon caressed the plant.

West doubted that it was an accident that he had observed this. Herndon meant to elicit a response from him, to test his reaction. To that end, West obliged, feigning an appreciation of the gesture and communicating that he understood what it was in reference to.

"Ah, Westphal," Herndon said. "So you have come after all. I had heard you would be returning to your estate at Ambermede after the new year."

"The new year is only just upon us. There is time enough to make the journey. Did you not receive my reply to your invitation?"

"Yes, I did—then I heard the rumors and became unsure of your intent."

"My intent," West said with a proper chill in his voice, "is to keep my word. You have me, Herndon—now what will you do with me?"

Herndon cut an angular figure. He had a narrow face and tight, square shoulders. His long arms ended in bony wrists, large hands, and elegantly tapered fingers. His full mouth was the exception to the perpendicular lines that defined him. Here he was soft and thick, the lower lip jutting forward in something that resembled a woman's sensuous pout. It thinned, drawing as fine a line as it was capable of, while his lordship considered West carefully.

"There can be no doubt that you are your father's son," he said. "Devil a bit, if you don't sound just like him."

West chose not to take umbrage. He could not afford to overplay his hand. Herndon's invitation was as unexpected as it was timely, and he meant to take advantage of it, not spurn it. "You knew the duke well?"

"As well as any, I would venture to say, certainly better than you."

West was witnessing what his icy tone had cost him. He would have to suffer the razor-sharp edge of Herndon's tongue if the man could not be placated. It seemed the best way to accomplish that was by appreciating the man's passion. He spent the next thirty minutes touring the conservatory and making proper noises of awe and respect for Herndon's greenery.

The subject of Miss Weaver's Academy was never broached. West could admire the man's patience, even as he disliked being thwarted by it. Patience was not a characteristic he often associated with a member of the Society of Bishops, but he supposed it could be affected when it suited their purpose, especially by one who had held the exalted position of archbishop. For three years at Hambrick Hall, Herndon had been the Society's leader. Now, more than thirty years later, he could still enjoy the benefits of that station as chair of the board of governors.

At the end of the tour, suitably placated, Lord Herndon bid West join him in the music room for tea. After it was served, his lordship came to the point of his invitation. "I have recently received a letter from Mr. Beckwith of Sunbury in regard to your concern about the school at Gillhollow. He indicates that you are interested in a seat on our board."

"I expressed that to him, yes."

"Good, then there is no mistaking the matter. You are aware, are you not, that none of us takes compensation for our contribution? It is more often that we must contribute or find others who will do so. This is a charitable indulgence on our part. The school is barely solvent most years."

"I am very well aware."

Herndon nodded, his dark eyes shrewd in their appraisal.

"No doubt Miss Ashby has informed you that she spends a considerable portion of her own funds on supplies for the students. What I wonder is if you can appreciate that she indulges them?"

"It seemed to me that a seat on the board would provide opportunity to remedy both those things."

"Your father could not take her in hand."

"I am not in every way the duke's son." West underscored this with a knowing smile that spoke of confidences between two intimates. "Beckwith suggested I might want to keep her on a short tether. After due consideration, I have come around to his manner of thinking. A tether would suit her very nicely."

"The tighter the better, eh?"

"Indeed."

Lord Herndon rubbed his chin. "Miss Ashby is a treasure. If it is your intention to interfere with her running of the school, it would not be wise for you to sit with us."

"You've spoken to the other members?"

"Most, not all. Those who are in London only. There has been correspondence with the others." He sipped his tea. "There is agreement among us that you will be an asset in our endeavors. There is a long history of good works here that we should like to continue. You will appreciate that we are breaking with tradition by inviting you. Seats on the board have always been given to those who have had a member of the family serve before them. New blood is in order, we think."

West wondered if he would be required to spill his own. "You do me a great honor. I had not permitted myself to hope. It seemed unlikely, given that you did not extend the same invitation to my father."

Both of Herndon's salted brows lifted a fraction. "I was not aware you knew he had inquired about a position on the board."

"Miss Ashby knew. She told me."

Herndon said nothing immediately. "She encouraged you to approach Mr. Beckwith?"

"Discouraged me, actually."

"I see." There was a pause as he set his cup and saucer on the table at his side. "But she has said other things, I believe. About the student who left the school?"

"Yes, she mentioned it. She is naturally concerned... as I am."

"Then you will be pleased to learn that Mr. Lytton, the man we approved hiring to find the girl, has recently been to every dressmaker on Firth Street. I believe the instruction to do so came from Miss Ashby and was based on some particulars she learned from one of her students."

"And?"

"And he has recently made a report to me. I am certain there is also a written one going by express post to the academy. Mr. Lytton tells me that Miss..." His eyes lifted as he tried to recall the name. When he grasped it, he returned West's level stare. "That Miss Petty was indeed seen at several of the shops. She was in the company of a young gentleman who indicated he was her brother and guardian. He was purchasing her traveling garments, nightclothes, and other intimate items. Miss Petty has no brother. I think we can safely conclude that she has put herself under the protection of a man who can afford her, but can afford no better than she. Miss Ashby will be vastly disappointed to learn of it, I think, but she cannot hope to influence every girl to comport herself in a decent fashion. It is to be desired that she will not blame herself."

"Yes," West said quietly. "That is an outcome I would also desire."

* * *

West waited in a stand of trees and watched the flicker of light in the upper window of the cottage. It was cold, and he stamped his feet in place and blew on his cupped hands to ward off the piercing chill. The ride to Ambermede had been a hard one, almost without pause. Snow squalls made the journey doubly trying, preventing him from seeing the road ahead or even much of what was under Draco's hooves. He had persevered because he did not know how to do otherwise.

It would be a relief to speak to South about the paintings, then quit this place and continue on to Gillhollow. Visiting the cottage was never to his liking, though Mrs. Simon from the village always kept the place in good order for him. He was never certain why he kept it up after his mother died. She had not asked it of him; he could have let it fall into disrepair. Of late he had begun to think he'd held the property to keep it vivid in the duke's memory, not his own. His interest in maintaining it had waned almost immediately upon hearing of his father's death. That was a sure indication that his motives were spiteful, not high-minded. If South had not asked to use the place, West felt sure he would have already spoken to the solicitor about selling it.

A slim beam of moonlight penetrated the canopy of pine boughs and slanted across his gloved hands as he raised them to his face. He took a single step backward and was swallowed by shadow again.

It was likely that South and Miss Parr were sleeping. That was a state he longed for himself. He thought of Ria and wondered what manner of sleep she was enjoying. Peaceful? Fitful? Dreamless? He would wager the answer would have a great deal to do with whether she had received Mr. Lytton's report from London. Moreover, if she was in possession of it, whether or not she believed it.

Either way, West knew he was going to be the bearer of news that would be difficult for her to accept, and she was unlikely to be grateful to him for bringing it.

Rather than think on the consequences of that, he let himself into the cottage and waited to be discovered. Until it happened, though, he decided to avail himself of the settee.

It looked infinitely more comfortable than the saddle that had been his home of late.

South's tread on the stairs was light, but not without sound. West heard him try to time each step so that it accompanied the intermittent gusts of wind that buffeted the cottage.

"You may as well announce yourself with a cry from the crow's nest," West said dryly. "Land ho! Avast, ye mateys. Or whatever it is one cries from the mainmast."

South stopped in his tracks, one foot on a step, the other hovering above the next. "Bloody hell, West. I might have shot you."

West regarded the pistol in South's hand, unconcerned. "Not if you were aiming."

"If that is evidence of your wit, pray do not strain yourself."

West shrugged. It was an awkward gesture, given the fact that he was still laid out on the settee as if it were a stiff hammock, his head propped at one end, his feet at the other. He sat up slowly, stretching as South finished his descent. He reached for the oil lamp on the end table and turned up the wick. "I apologize for waking you. Not at all what I meant to do. I thought I could come in from the cold and get a few hours sleep before daybreak." That had not been his first plan, but once he was stretched out, it had seemed a better one.

"You didn't stop on your way here?"

"No. I came straightaway from London."

Both of South's brows rose. He ran a hand through his hair and managed to suppress a yawn that would have cracked his jaw if he had given in to it. "Then I take it you are not here to look after your recent inheritance. That business cannot have been so urgent."

"No. I may go there later. Have you been to the estate?"

"I rode past it yesterday morning. Your brother is in residence, I believe."

West nodded. "Unless it is your intention to shoot me still, you might put down the pistol."

South looked down at his hand. The pistol was indeed leveled in West's direction. Grinning, but unapologetic, he set it on the table beside the oil lamp and pulled up a stool. "Is it Elizabeth?" he asked.

West shook his head. "No. She is back in London with North. I have not seen them yet, but the colonel says they are indecently happy."

"That is good, then."

"It may be, yes."

South smiled faintly. "Why have you come, West? If it is not that you mean to wrest all of the Westphal keep from your brother, then what is it?"

West pointed to where he had placed his satchel against the opposite wall. "There," he said. "I came across them in the course of some work I am doing for the colonel. When I showed them to him, he sent me here to you." It was not a thorough lie, West thought, but definitely pressing that boundary.

South shifted on his stool to get a better look. "What are they? Maps?"

"No. You need to see them for yourself." South started to rise, but West leaned forward and laid one hand across his forearm. "I will get them." He rose and crossed the room. "Miss Parr is sleeping?" he asked.

"If we have not awakened her." Belatedly, South realized that West should not have known who he brought to the cottage. "Did the colonel tell you it was Miss Parr I had here, or did I make some misstep?"