The Sins of Lord Easterbrook (34 page)

Early evening's golden light bathed the street when she and Christian left the house. He spoke to the coachman, then joined her inside the coach.

“Well?” she asked.

Her question jolted him out of a reflective distraction. “Well?”

“Was he lying?”

“Do you think he was?”

“I worry that he would not know how to lie even if his life were at stake.”

“Then there you have it.”

“Of course, he may be a very good liar,” she said. “Too skilled for me to perceive. You, on the other hand, would be certain one way or the other.”

“I have known Denningham for years. His emotions are so predictable, so visible, that I have found him a restful presence compared to most people. Today I perceived nothing besides unwarranted joy in life, delight in his roses, an inappropriate masculine interest in you—”

“Surely not!”

“It is one reaction I would kill to avoid knowing, but it is unmistakable. Let me see, he also exuded confusion
about that notice, and genuine sympathy for your distress.” He casually pulled the curtains on the windows. “And, unfortunately, he was hurt that I did not dissuade you from accusing him.”

She pushed one curtain open a bit, so it would not be so dark. “In other words, he was telling the truth and I was given the wrong name.”

He tugged the curtain closed again. “Actually, I think he was lying.”

“But you just said—”

“Yes. Interesting, isn't it?”

“How do you explain that?”

He shrugged, but it was obvious that the discovery troubled him. “Either he is slyer than I ever guessed, or my curse is not infallible. I have perhaps been too arrogant in thinking it is. I do not care for the notion, however. To suffer this and not even know if my perceptions are valid will be.…intolerable.”

She could barely see his face in the shadowed space. “It is possible that with him, and others, you do not look too deeply into those perceptions. You would have practice in avoiding those intrusions with intimates.”

“Perhaps so. I will have to be more critical in the future, however, and assume less. I will never be completely certain again, will I?”

She sensed more dismay than his bland tone conveyed. She began to open the curtain so she could see his eyes.

“Do not touch that curtain.”

His command stopped her fingers on the fabric's edge. “Why not?”

“We are about to reach Hyde Park and it is the fashionable hour.”

“The whole purpose of the fashionable hour is to see and be seen. Why suffer it at all if you will remain in a closed coach?”

“I am conducting an experiment. The coach will plow into the thick of it, and I will test whether pleasure silences society's tedious noise.”

Already she could hear that noise. The coach slowed to a crawl. A river of humanity soon flowed around them, filling the dark interior with its buzzing chatter.

He knelt on the floor, laid her down on the bench seat, and began lifting her skirt and petticoat. “I will do for you, then you will do for me. Or would you rather switch the order?”

A woman laughed right outside the window. Leona tried to push her skirts down. “It is too daring to consider such a thing. There are carriages and riders all around. Inches from us. And the glass is open! If a breeze catches the curtains—”

“Dowagers will faint, matrons will scream, and we will be immortalized. We are courting ruin and damnation.” He bent her right leg, and lifted her left one over his shoulder. “Exciting, isn't it?”

Very exciting. Wickedly so. She looked up to the slit of daylight below one curtain, and imagined what would be seen by anyone peering in. Not so much, perhaps. It was dark in here and maybe—”

“You are unbearably beautiful, Leona.”

She gazed down her body. His long fingers reached out to touch what he had exposed. She bit her lip to
hold in her moan. Forcing her own silence only intensified what his touches did to her.

He could be a devil sometimes, and he was now. He deliberately teased at her, gently stroking in ways that maddened her but avoided the more direct caresses that she craved.

“Open your pelisse.”

She fumbled at the closure. The two halves fell away.

“Now touch yourself the way I showed you in Aylesbury. Pleasure yourself while I pleasure you.”

She touched her own breasts, hesitantly. This had made her very shy the first time he requested it, and it still did. Her fingertips found her nipples through the cloth. She rubbed. She became even more sensitive where he caressed her, unbelievably so.

He watched her expression, his dark gaze on her face and her abandon. She held in her cries as best she could but the pleasure was defeating her. Finally one snuck out, low and throaty and loud in the enclosed space.

She pressed one hand to her mouth. He smiled and kissed her leg. His hands cupped her bottom and lifted it just enough. His head bowed and his tongue began its devastating torture.

Christian walked a familiar route through Mayfair. His path took him past two dinner parties that he had declined to attend, and ultimately to Rallingport's library. The Duke of Ashford had come this time. Christian took a position near the second table where Ashford's silver hair rose above all the other heads.

“You haven't been in town much recently, Easterbrook,” Ashford said. “Dallying in the country, I hear.”

“Diddling is more like it, from what
I
hear,” Rallingport muttered. He chuckled at his own joke.

“Gentlemen, I advise you to watch your insinuations. I have met the lovely Miss Montgomery, and she is in every way a lady,” Denningham said soberly.

“I have proof positive that the best ladies are known to diddle,” Rallingport said.

Meadowsun's mouth became a hard line in his shriveled face. “Your schoolboy quips are tedious. I, for one, am glad to see your recent period of activity, Easterbrook. Very healthy. Very healthy indeed.”

“Well, he found a woman good for did—excuse me,
dallying,”
Rallingport snickered. “And it is well known that regular
dallying
is beneficial to a man's health, both mental and physical. If Easterbrook's lady fair is particularly helpful on that count, the government should make a contract with her and improve the national health.”

Christian set his hand on Rallingport's shoulder. “You have been drinking a good while already, so I will ignore that you just crossed a line. Cross it again, however, and I will have to call you out.”

Rallingport had been drinking long enough to take umbrage. “The hell you say. Not likely a mad recluse can best me in a duel, so think hard before any glove falls.”

“He will have no choice if you do not apologize,” Denningham said. “So apologize.”

Rallingport's face reddened.

“Apologize,” Ashford said with a pointed glance.

Rallingport mumbled an apology. Ashford lit a cigar, signaling a break in the game. Denningham rose and walked over to the tray holding an array of spirits. Christian followed him.

“I was flattered that you brought Miss Montgomery to call,” Denningham said. “You have not visited my house in years.”

“But you were less flattered when you realized there were ulterior motives to my visit.”

Denningham flushed. “To be expected, I suppose. Not your habit to waste time on such things. I should have known that a petition from a lovely woman was at the bottom of it.”

“She would have asked her question whether I brought her or not. Sooner or later she would have made her way to you. I only regret that my presence may have encouraged you to lie to her.”

“Lie? You insult me with that suggestion.”

Christian released his perception as he had not done with Denningham in years. He honed his attention on the man. Despite the indignant bluster, insult did not cloak Denningham so much as nervous worry. Christian had not been sure of the lie on entering this library, but now he was.

“Why would you place that death notice? How did you know Montgomery?”

Denningham tried to hold a stance of wounded outrage. He could not manage it. His bravado dissolved into dismay.

“I did not even remember what she was talking about at first. I never made the connection between
your Miss Montgomery and that damned notice. Hell, I'd clear forgotten about it. I did not know her father. He was just a name. I was told to find a man to write up the notice, then arrange for its publication.” He smiled sheepishly. “It seemed a little thing at the time, although I did not care for the detail about the cause of death. Seemed unnecessarily cruel. I was glad the writer fellow dressed that up a bit.”

Denningham seemed to speak honestly. Although, having erred at least once, Christian could never be absolutely certain about Denningham again. He was still assessing what that meant for all of his other certainties.

“Who told you to do it?”

“My father. He assumed I would know a young writer looking to make a few pounds. He thought he gave me the chance for a bit of largesse to a friend. Hell, I never knew any writers. What would writers want with me? I just picked a name off the court reports.”

They returned to the others. Christian took Denningham's place so Ashford would have a decent chance of making up his losses. They played another few rounds of whist in a game of cards begun generations ago.

It appeared the connection to Montgomery was not with the current Earl of Denningham, but the last one. Just as the connection had been with the last Easterbrook.

Christian studied the cards in his hand, then turned his attention to the other gentlemen gathered in this room.

G
riffin Winterside examined himself in the big looking glass. The tailor hovered and smoothed a sleeve.

Winterside turned this way and that. He had feared he'd look foolish in this fashion with its snug waist, but now he decided it flattered him. The stays helped of course. They were deucedly uncomfortable, but.…The tailor had not overdone that silly puff at the top of the sleeves either. He eyed the low hem. Did he imagine that his legs looked longer?

He decided the length flattered him too. He gave the tailor his approval to complete the finish work.

Delight in the new garment lightened his mood while he left the shop. That coat was worth every penny. He could not afford to look like an antique. All the peers wore this style now. All the young and fashionable ones, at least.

Thinking of the peers turned his mind to his duties. One in particular troubled him. That business with Miss Montgomery may have turned odd. There was a
rumor abroad that one of Easterbrook's servants had been attacked in her house by an intruder.

A thief no doubt. Certainly. And yet, when he had met yesterday with his contact on that matter, he could not shake the sense that the man knew more about that rumor than the Company ever would.

Indeed, the entire matter regarding the woman had become vague and murky. A simple affair had grown complex. Winterside did not care for the feeling that he had been someone's pawn in a game gone awry, especially since Easterbrook had probably been angered.

He would have to consult with his superiors. He debated how to do so without implying that he had lost control of the reins—

A body suddenly blocked his path. A chest blocked his sight. A rather broad chest in a very nice coat.

“Excuse me.” He started to step around. The nice coat moved too, blocking him again.

He looked up and saw blond hair and an amiable smile.

“Mr. Griffin Winterside? I do have the right man, don't I?”

“You do.”

“Good.” The blond man gestured. Two more men appeared. “The coach is here to bring you to the meeting, sir, as promised.”

“Coach? I have no meeting today. I checked my diary and—”

“I was told you did. Told to bring you. I dare not fail in my duty. If we discover I erred, I will beg your forgiveness.”

This young man did not strike Winterside as one
who ever begged forgiveness. That smile did not fool him. He had not worked Parliament for over a decade without learning a thing or two about judging people.

He stood his ground. Except he actually didn't. Some how their little knot moved toward a coach fifteen feet away. Its luxury and expense reassured him. It was a lord's coach to be sure. Perhaps he had neglected to note a meeting in his diary after all.

The footmen stood aside. One reached for the door. Winterside spied the escutcheon. Alarm made him dig in his heels. This was
Easterbrook's
coach.

He pivoted to bolt. Too late. Arms lifted him like he weighed nothing and deposited him inside the vehicle.

A half hour later he found himself a prisoner in Easterbrook's house on Grosvenor Square. He mounted the servant stairs with two men in front of him and two behind, like a prisoner going to the noose.

A door opened, and he stepped inside a huge, empty chamber. The door closed. They left him there, alone, without even a chair to sit on.

“He is here. Sweating in the fencing chamber.” Miller stuck his head in the dressing room to report his success.

Christian finished tying his cravat. “Did you get that other information that I sent you to obtain?”