The Courtship (34 page)

“Helen, I want you naked so badly that all I can see is far too much red stuff for me to strip off you.”

“Alexandra told me it was something a mistress would wear, a mistress who wished to seduce a very dashing, exciting, flamboyant protector. It was something, she said, that she would wear for Douglas, even though she was his wife. Sophie said Ryder would laugh his head off if she wore something like this and then he would strip it off her in a second flat.

“I thought about that. Well, I decided, we aren't married, and we were rather intimate, and so, does that make me a mistress?”

“No. You aren't a mistress. You are a lover. If you did not have any money, then you could be a mistress. Now leave, Helen.”

She smiled at him, turned around, and walked back to the door. She said over her shoulder, one white hand laid against the door frame, “I didn't want you to think that I wasn't fully aware of you.” Then her seduction fell away and she lowered her face into her hands.

He was out of his bed and was pulling her against him, all in under ten seconds. “No, love, don't cry. I would cry, but it isn't manly. There are certain standards that a man must uphold. Let me hold you, but please do not think lustful thoughts. Yes, all right, stop crying. We will deal with all of it, Helen. You and I are very smart indeed, and look at all our talented assistants. And now we've even added Ryder and Sophie Sherbrooke to our army. They are very resourceful. They have to be to survive dealing with fifteen children.

“Now there are at least ten people who know about the lamp, at least ten people who know about your blasted husband, who had better be good and dead. There are many more who know about Reverend Mathers's murder. Word will continue to spread. Things will happen. I have never believed in secrecy. It is having everyone know everything, that's the key. Then the truth will pop up. You'll see, dearest. No, please don't cry anymore.”

She sniffed and raised her head. Again, he was struck by how close they were to having their noses touch. His big girl was right there in his sights. He wanted her very much. “I've been wondering if we also shouldn't just announce to the world that the scroll verified the existence of a powerful lamp. That the lamp had probably been hidden with the scroll. What do you think?”

“You're naked, Spenser.”

He honestly hadn't realized it. He did now, and in less time than it would have taken him to remove an eyelash from his eye, he was hard and ready to leap. “Well, damn.” He kissed her. “Go to bed, dearest. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

She gulped, then blurted out, “I slept with you knowing he was alive. I deceived you. I was dishonorable. I don't deserve you. I don't want to tell anyone about the lamp.”

“Ah.” He began rubbing his big hands up and down her back. The silk slithered between his fingers. The feel and sound of that slithering silk would make a man of even greater will tremble. He shook his head. He got a grip on himself and managed to say, “Well, as a matter of fact, you did deceive me. So what? The blasted fellow has been gone for eight years. I would rather say that you couldn't help yourself, you had to have me, regardless of this hopefully dead bastard who may or may not have written you one single letter six months ago.

“You are not dishonorable. You are one of the most honorable people I have ever known. Now, if everyone knows about the lamp, most will simply discount it as a myth, since who would talk about it if it truly existed? Perhaps a few simpletons will go dig up anywhere they think the lamp could be hidden, not find anything except an occasional worm, and then it will eventually be forgotten. I don't believe that many people will believe that the ancient scroll had anything to do with the lamp. It is too farfetched.”

She leaned forward, touching her forehead to his. “Still, I took you, and I realize that you really had no choice in the matter.”

Now that was interesting, he thought, remembering how they had been sodden and shivering and miserable until they'd happened to touch each other in that dilapidated cottage with the rain pouring down not two feet away from them.

“Yes,” he said, kissing her ear, “you took me, and I had no say in the matter at all. I remember trying to tell you I didn't want you, but you just wouldn't let up on me. Stop it now, Helen—any lapses you are feeling in your moral character are just minor ones. But I wonder. Would I have made love to you if I'd known about Gerard? I can't answer that. I don't know.”

“But that's why you don't want me now.”

He closed his hands over her beautiful white arms and shook her just a bit. “That's not the truth at all and you know it. I want you all of the time, Helen. But the thing is, I want to know while I'm caressing you and kissing you and nibbling at your white neck that you are my wife, not my almost-wife or my lover or even just my partner. I want you for all of it, Helen. I want us to be married when we come together again. There's nothing more to it than that. What you and I are together is very important. It is forever. Do you understand?” He touched his forehead once again to hers.

“Maybe, but—”

“Now,” he said quietly against her mouth, “you said you don't deserve me. That is a repellent thought. I also cannot accept what made you say it. It is nonsense and it makes me angry. Take it back—now. We'll keep mum for the time being about the bloody lamp and the scroll.”

“All right.” She sniffed. “Would you just kiss me one time? If you do, then I swear I'll run.”

He kissed her and she ran. He stood there in the middle of his bedchamber, panting like the messenger who had run from Marathon to Athens, only to drop dead at the end. He wondered what it was this particular woman did to him. And he was very grateful for it.

 

Sir John Yorke was a desiccated old relic who was perfectly bald, had very frightening eyes because they had practically no color at all, and had a tic by the side of his left eye.

He was still very powerful. He was known to be ruthless and vicious when he perceived the need.

He was tapping together his steepled fingertips. The skin was loose on the back of his age-spotted hands.

He merely nodded to the three gentlemen. He knew all of them, not as friends but as powerful men, and that gave him no choice at all but to see them, to listen to them. He had no idea what they wanted. He looked at them, all young, healthy, well made. Their ranks were higher than his. They were all richer than he was. But the only one he truly feared was the earl of Northcliffe, who was still involved in the ministry for an occasional mission that a lesser man would not be able to perform. He was well connected to everyone of power in the government. As for his brother, Ryder Sherbrooke was newly elected to the House of Commons. He detested all of them. He had no choice but to deal with them, but then, thank God, they would leave. Good riddance to all the worthless bastards. He smiled a stingy, false smile.

He did not rise. “What may I do for you gentlemen?”

Lord Beecham said pleasantly, “We are here to verify that your son, Gerard Yorke, indeed drowned off the coast of France in 1803.”

Ryder Sherbrooke watched those pale lashes flicker just once over the nearly colorless eyes. Got you, he thought, sat back, and folded his hands over his belly.

“Of course he drowned,” Sir John said, his voice rising. “He was a hero. He would have followed me into the Admiralty had he survived. Your question is nonsense.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Lord Beecham asked, handing Sir John the letter.

“Ah, I understand this now. My former daughter-in-law, has dragged you into this. I wondered what three society gentlemen wanted with me. You are acting on her behalf. Well, well, let us get it over with. This is not my son's handwriting. She knows that. My son is dead.”

“Miss Mayberry believes that it is Gerard Yorke's handwriting,” Douglas said, sitting forward, his eyes steady on Sir John's face. “She told us that you didn't know your son's handwriting all that well.”

They heard the movement of Sir John's secretary behind them, by they didn't turn.

“She is wrong. Naturally I know his handwriting. More to the point, she is probably a liar. She needs money and thus she creates this wretched fiction. She did not produce a child for me—for my son—and thus she doesn't deserve any consideration whatsoever. Please inform her that I will not be pleased if she continues with this harassment.”

Lord Beecham said very pleasantly, “I believe there is a misunderstanding here, Sir John. I wish to wed Miss Mayberry. With this letter from your son, it appears that she is not free, as she had believed for eight long years. We will require proof that he is indeed dead, else we will have to advertise in all the newspapers, speak to everyone we know, search out any friends of his, to find out the truth.”

Sir John rose slowly, very slowly, because his hip pained him badly, nearly all the time now, and there was no reason for it, was there? None that his physician could find. It was just age, just bloody age. At least his blood was pumping strongly through his body, he could feel it pounding in his neck. “My son is dead, long dead. Wed Miss Mayberry with my blessing, Lord Beecham.”

“I shall, sir. I shall also do whatever I can to ensure that he is indeed dead.”

When the three of them were on the street in Whitehall, in front of the Admiralty, Lord Beecham was shaking his head. “That old man is wily. I don't trust him an inch.”

Ryder said without hesitation, “He is also lying.”

“Trust Ryder,” Douglas said when he realized that Spenser was unsure about this. “He has always been excellent at seeing through people.”

Lord Beecham stepped closer to the iron fence surrounding the Admiralty as a carriage came careening around a corner. “You mean he knows his son is still alive?”

“Oh, yes,” Ryder said. “He knows. But the strange thing is, he doesn't want anyone else to know. Now why is that, do you think?”

“Yes, and do not forget that Gerard was a hero,” Spenser said. “He would have followed his father into the Admiralty if only he had lived. Well, hell and damnation. If he truly is alive, then I can't very well marry Helen. What will we do?”

“We will have to wait,” Ryder said. “Just wait for the moment. Let us put announcements in all the newspapers.”

“This is curious indeed,” said Douglas. “Yes, we will have to wait.”

Spenser didn't like it, but there was simply nothing he could do about it. He had prayed that Gerard Yorke was indeed dead. But now?

The three gentlemen adjourned to White's to ponder this more thoroughly and to ask every man who strolled by if he had heard from, remembered, or had seen Gerard Yorke after 1803. They knew that by morning Gerard Yorke's name would be on everyone's lips. While at White's, Lord Beecham wrote betrothal announcements to every London newspaper. The one he wrote for the
Gazette
was indeed splendid, filled with detail. Then he wrote inquiries for each newspaper requesting any information about the whereabouts of one Gerard Yorke, son of Sir John Yorke of the Admiralty. That should really please the old man, he thought. He offered a fifty-pound reward. He was rubbing his hands together, grinning like the devil himself after collecting a tidy number of souls.

Douglas and Ryder added their ideas. Everyone was pleased when all the announcements and inquiries were sent all over London by messenger.

When they returned to the Beecham town house, it was to meet Lord Hobbs in the drawing room—sitting much too close to Helen, Lord Beecham thought, his jaw clenching. I am jealous, he thought, and that amazed him. He saw Helen again in that incredible red-silk confection, saw Lord Hobbs trying to see her too, and it made him so furious he nearly attacked the man on the spot. Jealousy—what a very strange thing it was.

Lord Hobbs was once again dressed all in gray, and Helen, to Lord Beecham's eye, looked much too interested in what he was saying, the poaching bastard. He got hold of himself. He was being ridiculous. Jealousy was fine as an experiment, but he didn't want any more of it.

Lord Hobbs rose and was dutifully introduced to Ryder Sherbrooke.

“I understand you just took the seat for Upper and Lower Slaughter. My congratulations.”

Ryder nodded. “I like all the gray,” he said.

Lord Hobbs looked quickly over at Helen, and Ryder would have sworn that he flushed just a bit.

Helen said immediately once everyone was settled, “Lord Hobbs tells us that Ezra Cave believes Lord Crowley to be guilty.”

“Yes,” Lord Hobbs said. “I was fascinated to hear that Lord Crowley rode to Court Hammering to see you, Lord Beecham, to plead his innocence.”

“Yes, he did.” Lord Beecham looked directly into Helen's incredibly beautiful blue eyes, “Trust me on this. And I hate to say it, but I believe him.”

Douglas Sherbrooke cursed.

Lord Hobbs didn't look happy. “He is a wicked man. Everyone I have spoken with confirms that.”

“Yes, I know. But do you know, my lord, he told me he didn't think Reverend Older did it because he hasn't the guts. However, about Reverend Mathers's brother—Old Clothhead—it turns out that not only did he argue with Reverend Mathers, he also has a young wife who wants jewelry and such. Is it possible that Old Clothhead stole the scroll after he killed his brother because he thought he might be able to make money off it?”

“I don't know. I will look once more at the brother and his young wife. Who else is there, then?”

“Lord Hobbs,” Helen said, handing him a cup of tea, “perhaps there is someone we don't know about who is overseeing all of this? Someone who is directing all this from the shadows, who is watching all of us, waiting to see where we will go to find the lamp?”