Her knuckles whitened as her hands clasped together tighter in her lap. “He’s been making improper sugges tions for quite some time. It has gone well beyond the stage where it is an annoyance and into downright ha rassment. I loathe the very sight of him.”
The blackguard. Luke wished with savage intensity the man weren’t dead so he could strangle him himself. “I am not a female and have never been subject to that sort of persecution, but I don’t blame you for your aversion to his lordship. In fact, I wish you’d come to me sooner.”
“I didn’t want to ask for
your
help even in my current circumstances.”
The trembling of her shapely body made him want to rise, go to her, and take her in his arms, cradle her close and promise all would be well. But he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it, so he stayed where he was, though it took some effort. “Very well, perhaps I deserve that, but let’s get back to the matter at hand. Fitch was lascivious and inappropriate. Go on.”
“I’ve tried to avoid him.” Her lower lip, so lush and full, quivered. “At every function, in public venues . . .
everywhere
.”
“Madge, I am sure you have.”
“It didn’t work. He deliberately put himself in my path as often as possible.”
Luke silently waited for her to continue, stifling futile fury at a man who was already dead.
“He ...” she trailed off, looking forlorn and very young suddenly, with her pure, averted profile and tendrils of hair escaping from her chignon and caressing her neck. “He has something of Colin’s.”
Of her deceased husband’s? Luke wasn’t sure how that was possible, when Lord Brewer had died at least five years ago . . . perhaps even six.
With a tremor in her voice, she went on. “I very much want it back and endeavored to bargain with his lordship, but there is one price I am not willing to pay.”
Price?
His jaw locked. The use of her luscious body. She didn’t even have to say it out loud. Luke felt the angry beat of his pulse in his temple and actually flexed his hands to keep from reaching for her when the rystalline line of a tear streaked down her smooth cheek. Even his jaded sophistication was no match for her genuine distress. “He’s been blackmailing you?”
“No.” She stared at the patterned rug. “Not precisely.”
Not precisely.
What in the hell did that mean? The gravity of the moment precluded him from muttering
women
, but he had to acknowledge a rising sense of frustration over the lack of a clear explanation. “I don’t understand. It seems to me a person is being blackmailed or they are not.”
She made a small hopeless gesture with her hand. “He . . . he knew things. And would mention them at inappropriate times. I began to suspect . . .”
By nature he wasn’t a patient man anyway, and when she trailed off again, Luke prompted curtly, “Suspect what? Devil take it, my dear. Perhaps I am obtuse, but right now I have little more idea what has happened than when I walked in the door. Just explain it to me so we can deal with this.”
“It’s mortifying.”
“Good God, woman, you just told me you killed a man. If it is mortifying, so be it, but get to the point. With my reputation, I am unlikely to judge you.”
For a moment, she just stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time, her beautiful eyes wide. Then she nodded, just the barest tilt of her head.
“Colin kept a journal.” She took a deep, shuddering breath but went on. “He was always scribbling something in it. Apparently, he wrote down everything, even details about our . . . our married life. Lord Fitch got a hold of it, though I can’t really imagine how. After enough lewd but accurate comments and suggestions, I began to realize the odious man
must
have the journal. They weren’t friends, and Colin would never tell him anything so private. I can’t imagine he’d tell
anyone
. It was the only explanation.
I
hadn’t even read it because it seemed like too much of an invasion of Colin’s privacy, so I’d locked it away. Sure enough, it is missing.”
And, it went without saying, it was certainly an invasion of Madeline’s privacy as well. Luke knew she’d loved her husband with all the depth of a woman’s first passion, and his death had been a devastating blow to her. He could only imagine the sense of violation she felt over his personal notes and thoughts being read by a stranger.
“I almost had him buried with it.” Her voice was choked. “But I suppose I thought one day I might want to read it for comfort.”
Instead a heartless toad like Fitch had made a travesty of the intimate writings of the man she loved. If the earl hadn’t already met his untimely end, Luke could have killed the worthless scoundrel himself. He said with forced coolness, “Whatever happened to his lordship, it sounds to me like he quite deserved it. Where is he now?”
“In Colin’s study.”
The answer was said in such a low whisper he almost didn’t catch it. Madeline looked blindly at the wall, her expression so remote it worried him. One slender hand plucked restively at her skirt. “Here?” Luke asked.
She nodded, the movement jerky. “I requested a meeting to discuss the journal. It seemed prudent and more to my advantage to conduct business in a way a man would do so, and Colin’s study was a logical loca tion. I had Lord Fitch escorted there when he called in response to my note.”
At least they were getting somewhere. Luke rose. “Take me there and we’ll sort this out.”
As if one could sort out having a dead lord in a man’s study. But he was willing to do his best.
For her. Because, though he didn’t wish to admit it even to himself, Luke had an admiration for Lady Brewer that extended quite beyond her matchless pas sion and undeniable beauty. Since defining it meant examining his own feelings, he’d avoided too much in trospection on the matter, but he certainly had come running when she asked.
That was telling. Knight in shining armor was nor mally a role he disdained.
Woodenly, with the movements of a person who had suffered quite a shock, she got up and without speaking walked out of the drawing room and led the way down the hall.
Her hope that it had all been some sort of bizarre dream was dashed when, unfortunately, Lord Fitch still lay in the same lax sprawl on the floor by the fireplace in a pool of his own blood. It was a pity, Madeline thought, because she’d always rather liked that rug, even if it was faded on one side from the sunlight that streamed in through the window in the late afternoon. Since Colin’s death she had often come in and sat at his desk, the aroma of his tobacco in the jar on the desk familiar and poignant, his pipe just where he had left it the day he first complained about the headache that eventually blossomed into a fever, aches, chills, and, within two days, death. The room, with its paneled walls and worn books, was a comfort. Or it had been until now.
“I take it the fireplace poker was the method of dispatching his lordship to where, even now, I imagine he is shaking Satan’s hand.” Luke gazed dispassionately at the dead man, his tone cool and calm. “Not an original choice, but perhaps it is so popular because it is so effective.”
“Yes.” Lord Fitch had been taunting her . . . enjoying it. She could still hear his oily voice.
So, Lady Brewer, is it true you once, at the opera, behind a curtain, let your husband lift your skirts and . . .
It had been impossible to reason with the gloating old goat, and certainly appealing to his nonexistent sense of honor hadn’t been effective.
“When a request for him to return the journal didn’t work, I offered him money for it. He merely laughed at me and said it was far too entertaining and wasn’t for sale.” Her voice was low and dull, but the awfulness of the evening had begun to take its toll. “I pointed out that it was mine in the first place, and returning it was the least any gentleman would do. He refused and continued to make the most disgusting, insulting suggestions you can think of.”
“My imagination is excellent,” Luke said in a tone that was pleasant, yet it sent a shiver up her spine. “For instance, I would have chosen a much more painful manner of execution for this piece of refuse right now soiling a perfectly good rug. Finish the story.”
“He threatened to publish it.”
Damn it all.
Another tear ran down her cheek and she swiped it away with the back of her hand, like a child might. While the last thing she wanted to do was weep in front of Luke Daudet, of all people, in the light of this current disaster, she didn’t care all that much.
“So you conked him with a poker. Excellent decision.”
“I didn’t conk him with a poker, as you put it,” Madeline said defensively, “just because of that, though I was appalled. Men settle things with violence. Women are more civilized.”
With irritating logic, he pointed out, “Ah, perhaps, but I am not the one with a dead man in my study.”
Ignoring that comment, she explained haltingly, “I—I had by then realized any further discussion was useless and disliked the way he looked at me, so I got up to go fetch Hubert to escort the man out. When I came around the desk, Lord Fitch . . . he, well, grabbed me and whispered an extremely repulsive suggestion. He’d obviously been drinking, for his breath reeked. I was close to the fireplace, and as I struggled to get away, I must have grabbed the poker, for next I knew he was lying on the floor.”
“Clearly self-defense.” Luke reached into the pocket of his perfectly tailored jacket and took out a snowy handkerchief embroidered with his initials in one corner and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She wiped away another wayward tear.
Luke knelt by the body and took up one limp arm. “He’s still warm, so I take it you sent for me immedi ately. Where’s his carriage?”
“That’s the one blessing in all this. He must have walked, as he lives only a block or so away.”
“What did you tell your staff? Obviously everyone is in bed.”
“That his lordship dropped off due to too much drink and that I sent for you to see him home.”
“Good thinking.” He frowned, his handsome face in profile showing the first true expression of chagrin of the evening. “Only we have one enormous problem, my dear.”
One? She’d just killed an earl in her husband’s study. She had countless troubles ahead, as far as she could tell.
“The bastard is still alive.”
“What? There’s so much blood!” Madeline stared, not sure if she even believed him, crumpling the fine piece of linen in her hand. “He wasn’t breathing—I’d swear it. I checked.”
“You were understandably distraught, I am going to suspect, but I can feel a pulse. I’m no physician, but as irksome as it might be, it seems quite strong and steady. Head wounds, also, bleed with notorious profusion. I saw my fair share during the war.”
She experienced a wash of relief so acute her knees nearly buckled. “Thank God. While I am not an ad mirer of Lord Fitch, I did not wish to be the cause of his death.”
“You are kinder than I am, obviously. I’d gladly meet him on the field, and if he survives, I just might call him out. However, I can’t countenance killing an uncon scious man, no matter how much he deserves it, so I sup pose our first order of business is getting him home and some medical attention. If you’ll just open the door for me, we’ll be on our way.”
Call him out?
Madeline was startled by the lethal ve hemence of Luke’s tone, not to mention the grim expression on his fine-boned face, but too distraught to address it.
Though Fitch was portly, he was much shorter, and Luke heaved his lordship’s body over his shoulder with what seemed like little exertion.
“He’s bleeding on your jacket,” Madeline whispered, leaning limply against the desk.
“I have more clothing.”
“I ...”
Lifting Lord Fitch’s plump posterior in the air, Luke looked at her, his brows elevated in sardonic question. “Just help me get this horse’s arse out of here, then have a glass of wine and forget it all happened.”
How easy he made it all sound.
“Luke,” she started in protest, for truly, though she wanted his help, she hadn’t counted on him shouldering the entire problem.
“Open the door. I’m going to take care of everything. You needn’t give it another thought.” His voice was full of quiet, purposeful promise and completely unlike his usual flippant tone.
She moved to comply, preceding him through the quiet town house, helping with opening doors. When he slipped out the servant’s exit, she watched his shrouded figure disappear into the darkened alley, only to hear the rattle of wheels a few moments later.
If locking the door was effective, she didn’t know—not as effortlessly as Viscount Altea had accessed her house—but she did it anyway. Then she wandered back to Colin’s study. The ghastly stain on the rug wasn’t going to be dealt with easily, and she supposed the whole thing would have to be discarded.
And how to explain it . . .
Nosebleed
, she pondered, wandering over to stare at the horrible spot, wishing she’d wake up and find it all a nightmare. Could she claim Lord Fitch had a dreadful nosebleed and had ruined the carpet?