Gallant Scoundrel (27 page)

“I’m glad you agree.” Setting both glasses on a low table, he lightly touched her cheek. “For a while, I feared you had completely lost your thirst for new and exciting experiences.”

Her heart accelerating in spite of herself, Xena swallowed. “Perhaps not…not completely,” she whispered. The longing she’d felt earlier that evening returned, stronger than ever. In vain she tried to remind herself that she mustn’t give in. Harry was clearly drunk—he’d not be saying these things otherwise.

He leaned in closer. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible for you to become even more intoxicating than I remembered, Xena, but you most assuredly have.”

Feeling oddly intoxicated herself, though she’d drunk but little, she swayed toward him. Gently, so gently, he touched his lips to hers, just as he had the first time they’d ever kissed…and now, as then, she was nearly overwhelmed by the riot of sensation that assailed her. This,
this
was why she had become so addicted to Harry all those years ago. It was an addiction she’d thought long cured…but she’d been wrong.
 

For a long moment she clung to him, reveling in the spiraling pleasure she’d thought never to feel again. But as he pulled her tighter against him, a tiny thread of sanity intruded. Striving desperately to calm her racing pulse, her desperate longing for more, she leaned away. “I…I can’t.”

“Can’t you, Xena? We are husband and wife, you know.” The passionate yearning in his expression was tinged with a sadness that tempted her on a whole different level.
 

“I know. But—” The truth about Theo hovered on her lips. No! This was
not
the time for such a confession. He’d had far too much to drink and her own judgment seemed nearly as questionable as his at the moment.
 

He seemed to sense her decision, for the sadness in his hazel eyes increased. “I’d rather hoped we could put an end to pretense tonight.”

“To—?”

“I know, Xena. I know about your visits to Rundel Street and who you’ve been seeing there.”

With a gasp, Xena’s hand flew to her throat. Harry already
knew
about Theo? How? Had Lord Peter broken his promise after all?
 

“I…I’m so sorry, Harry. I never should have—”

He released her then, almost pushing her away. “Never should have what? Lied to me?” His voice turned harsh but there was still more of pain than anger in his eyes.
 

Miserably, she nodded. “Please, let me explain,” she began again, but he swung away from her.
 

“No need. I’d as soon not hear the sordid details of exactly what favors you’ve been granting Wellington in return for the money he’s been lavishing on you. Give you good night, madam wife.” Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

*
       
*
       
*

Harry stormed out of the house without hat, overcoat, or any idea where he was going. His only thought was to put as much distance between himself and Xena as possible.
 

For a few delicious moments it had seemed they were close to recapturing the passion they’d once shared, the affection that had existed between them. Then, when he’d almost convinced himself he’d been mistaken in his suspicions, she’d confirmed them—had
admitted
to carrying on an affair with Wellington and lying about it.

Turning a corner, he staggered slightly. Perhaps sharing that second bottle with Jack at the club had been a mistake—especially since Jack had barely touched it. Between that and the wine at dinner, he was drunker than he’d been in over a fortnight—because he’d felt the need for a bit of liquid courage to bolster his attempt to storm the citadel that was Xena.
 

Not that it had helped. A more spectacular failure he could scarcely imagine. It appeared that even his most practiced overtures couldn’t hold a candle to Wellington’s. Was she even now laughing at his pitiful attempt at seduction? He doubted she scoffed when
he
complimented her….

Still with no clear destination in mind, he quickened his steps, trying to outpace his humiliation.
 

When Xena had last undermined his confidence, he fuzzily recalled, the Saint had successfully restored it. He might as well try that same solution tonight…and he knew precisely which target would serve his purpose best. With a grim smile, he directed his steps toward Hyde Park Corner and Apsley House, Wellington’s new Town residence.

*
       
*
       
*

Xena stood stock-still in the middle of the library staring at the door Harry had slammed shut as understanding belatedly dawned.
 

It appeared Lady Mountheath had been absolutely correct about Harry’s belief that she was having an affair with the Duke of Wellington—but completely wrong about his feelings on the matter!
 

She breathed a sigh of relief, not only that her secret about Theo was still safe, but even more that Harry was by no means
happy
about her supposed dalliance with their former general. A moment later, however, indignation supplanted that relief.

How dared he make such an assumption on so little evidence? Her behavior had been above reproach, whatever Wellington’s intentions—she’d done nothing more than dance with the man! True, the Duke had indirectly paid for her newest, most expensive dresses, but she had traded no “favors” for them. She hadn’t even known he was the one buying the artifacts until the night before last.
 

Had Harry given her a chance to explain, she likely would have told him all about Theo, thinking he already knew. By reacting as she had to that erroneous assumption, Xena had surely given Harry what he would consider proof that his suspicions were correct.
 

But…so what if she had? she thought defiantly.
Harry
had no right to pass judgment on
her
given his own reputation for promiscuity! Surely a wife had as much right to extra-marital dalliance as her husband.

At any rate, she could see no way to convince him of her fidelity without telling him the truth about Theo after all.
That,
she now had no inclination whatever to do, even if her seeming admission of guilt drove Harry straight into the arms of one or another of his mistresses.
 

Bitterness rose up in her throat at the thought but she would never willingly abide by the horridly unequal standards of acceptable behavior for women compared to men.
 

Clinging to that grim vow, Xena headed upstairs to her bedchamber to ponder her options—only to be met by a smiling Gretchen.
 

“I’ve laid out your prettiest nightgown, mum, as it seemed likely you might have company tonight.” She tittered, a hand over her mouth.

Xena frowned at the maid. “Whatever do you mean, Gretchen? Company?”

“Why, your Mr. Thatcher, of course, who else? Everyone below stairs was abuzz with how famously the two of you was getting on over dinner. Matthew, the footman what served you, told us. ‘Course, Mrs. MacKay and the others have said all along as how things were bound to turn out right for you both.”

Unfortunately, the servants could not have been more wrong.
 

Still, Xena was curious. “Why should they think so?”
 

“Because this here’s a lucky house for romance.” Gretchen spoke matter-of-factly. “No doubt that’s why Lord Peter wanted the two of you to bide here.”

Snorting a mirthless laugh, Xena shook her head. “Lucky? Come, Gretchen, you must know that is mere superstition.”

The maid shook her head vigorously. “Not a bit of it, mum! Why, Lord Peter and his wife, they married sudden-like after knowing each other barely a week and after just a few days here in this house, they turned out happy as larks. Same for his younger brother, Lord Marcus. Him and his bride was
forced
to marry because of some scandal or other. They was at each other’s throats at first, too, from what Millie says. Yet they’re happy as anything now, too—and the change happened whilst they was living right here.”

“Two instances is scarcely proof,” Xena pointed out.
 

“How ‘bout three, then? Lord Edward, another one of their brothers, lived here before his marriage, too, and after. He and his wife scarce knew each other at all—one of them marriages for money, I think—but now they’ve a little one and so in love it’s hardly decent, by all accounts. And Mrs. Walsh, who’s been here nigh forever, says there’s more what found love in this house in generations past. Mark my words, mum, the luck will work for you and your Mr. Thatcher, too.”

Though it was clearly all gammon, Gretchen spoke with such certainty that Xena’s mood lightened slightly in spite of herself. Still, she shook her head. “If so, ’twill be a near miracle, I fear. Though our evening may have begun well, it did not end so. Mr. Thatcher left a few minutes ago, and in quite a temper.”

“You do tend to be a bit too plain-spoken for your own good, mum, begging your pardon.”
 

Xena’s lips twitched. “You are a fine one to talk, Gretchen. But I’ve ever been one to prefer honesty to polite untruths despite the consequences.”

“Yet you won’t tell Mr. Thatcher the truth about you and him having a son?”

Ouch.
“I will. But only when the time is right. Tonight…was not that time.”
 

Would that time ever come now? First she would have to somehow mend things with Harry—while at the same time making him understand that she’d not tolerate his double standard. If he wished her to remain faithful, he must be willing to pledge the same, something she doubted he would do.
 

Still, if she could stay awake until his return, she would confront him over the issue this very night. What had she to lose?

*
       
*
       
*

On reaching the ornate iron railing surrounding Apsley House, Harry paused to take stock and determine his best way to proceed. It was only then that he noticed the white cuff of his shirt protruding past his coat sleeve, like a beacon in the dark. His high-point collar was likely even more visible.
 

He supposed his wisest course would be to change clothes before making this undoubtedly risky attempt, but the thought of the long walk to Seven Dials and back in his current unsteady state decided him against it. How difficult could this be, really? It was just another housebreaking—and Wellington surely had it coming. The Duke himself must admit that cuckolding a fellow officer was bad form.

By way of compromise, Harry pulled off his cravat and stuffed it in his pocket, then detached his collar and did the same. Not much he could do about the cuff, as it would require another hand to tuck it into his sleeve. He’d simply keep it as close to his body as possible until he’d gained the inside of the house.

Only one or two windows in the front of the house showed lights, so Wellington was likely still out at some do or other, leaving only servants for Harry to elude—something he was fairly confident he could do despite his narrow shave a week since. Slipping through the open front gate, he went around to the back of the house, keeping to the shadows.

No rear windows had been left conveniently ajar—not surprising, as the night was uncomfortably chilly—but that did not concern him unduly as by now he was nearly as skilled at unlocking windows as doors. Not until he reached the dark window farthest from the lit kitchens did he remember that, in addition to his usual disguise, his housebreaking tools were back in the flat in Seven Dials.
 

Muttering a curse at his own stupidity—and again regretting that last bottle of wine—he went to work on the window anyway, jiggling the sash to discover its locking mechanism. A simple small drop-bar—easy enough to dislodge with a thin strip of metal slipped between sash and frame…which was among his other tools in Seven Dials. What might he use as an expedient?
 

Searching through his trouser pockets, he found a pair of his Saint cards left over from a previous caper—a bit of luck, as those were something else he hadn’t thought to bring along. Carefully, he jimmied the rectangle of stiff parchment through the crack along the edge of the window, then slid it up until it contacted the locking bar. So far, so good.

Thoroughly absorbed in his task, he nearly forgot his surroundings until a shout from the direction of the kitchens recalled him. He’d been spotted! With a muffled oath, he ducked behind some ornamental bushes and scurried, still crouching, close along the side of the house toward the gate where he’d entered. With any luck, whoever had seen him would be content with having driven off the intruder…

But luck was not with Harry that night, it seemed. He’d barely reached the corner of the great house when more shouts came from behind, then the sounds of hurrying feet. A moment later he heard remarkably military-sounding orders called and remembered something he should have considered sooner—many, if not most, of Wellington’s menservants were former soldiers.
 

As recognition would be nearly as disastrous as capture, Harry broke and ran full-tilt for the gate, making sure to keep his left side out of view from any who might come round the corner before he could make his escape. Running as hard as his inebriated state would allow, he achieved the gate and sprinted off down Constitution Hill along the edge of Green Park, thinking to take a circuitous route East toward Seven Dials.
 

For a dozen steps he thought he’d been successful in eluding pursuit—then the sound of a shot shattered the night, accompanied by a cry to halt. His heart now fairly in his throat, Harry swerved to the park railing and vaulted it, wishing Green Park boasted more trees. Perhaps if he cut straight across and back up to Piccadilly…? But already it was too late. From the corner of his eye, he saw at least two of those after him veering left to cut off that avenue of retreat.

“Damned soldiers,” he panted, swerving back to the right to fling himself over the railing again, now aiming for St. James’s Park, which offered more chance for concealment.