A Kiss Before Dawn (5 page)

P
eter reached up to give his cravat another impatient tug, then turned to face the mirror one last time, surveying his reflection with a critical eye.

Well, he wasn't precisely in the first stare of fashion, but he would do, he supposed, the corners of his mouth curving upward in a wry smile. The double-breasted coat of dark blue superfine and tan buckskin breeches had been purchased for the rare occasions when his job made it necessary for him to mingle with the more aristocratic members of society, but he had never felt comfortable wearing them, and tonight was no exception. They were the clothes of a gentleman, and that was something he had never professed to being.

He shook his head. If he had even half a mind, he would have continued to maintain that a dinner in his
honor was not necessary, but one look at the countess's pleading expression and he'd been unable to say no.

“I want to thank you for going along with Deirdre's plans for this evening,” Tristan had said to him once they had excused themselves and quit the parlor, leaving Lady Ellington and Lilah to their excited buzzing. “I know you've never enjoyed these sorts of things, but it's her way of distracting herself from her worry over the babe.” The earl had given a rueful chuckle. “I've discovered it does little good to protest when she sets her mind to something. Far better to allow her to do as she wishes rather than fight it.”

Perhaps that was true, Peter thought now with a slight grimace, but that didn't mean he was comfortable with the situation. At least tonight shouldn't be too much of a strain. He knew and liked everyone who would be present, and it might afford him the opportunity to speak with Benji and discover exactly what was going on in that quarter.

As for Emily, he hadn't seen a sign of her since they had all gone their separate ways earlier that morning, and he couldn't help but wonder if she might be deliberately avoiding him. If so, she likely had the right idea. They were both far better off if they stayed out of each other's way as much as possible.

Well, that was enough dragging his feet. The sooner he made his way downstairs to join the party, the sooner this evening would be over with. The sound of a carriage outside his bedroom window had signaled the arrival of the first of their guests a quarter of an hour
ago, and he could not put it off any longer without seeming rude.

Straightening his shoulders, he turned on his heel and left the chamber.

The moment he stepped out into the hallway, the murmur of voices drifted up to him from downstairs, soft feminine laughter followed by a deep baritone. Hurrying his strides, he turned the corner onto the upstairs landing just in time to nearly run into someone coming from the opposite direction.

Words of apology hovering on his lips, he looked up to find himself staring into Emily's startled eyes. His breath left him in a rush, taking his request for forgiveness with it.

Dainty and delicate, she was a vision of beauty, as luminous as the moon that shone through the windows behind them, casting its pale light over her in an ethereal glow. Dressed in a full-skirted evening gown of palest blue silk shot through with strands of silver, and with her golden hair swept up in a mass of ringlets that tumbled about her heart-shaped face, she looked fey and innocent.

Untouchable.

He gave her a polite bow. “Lady Emily.”

“Mr. Quick.” The curtsy she offered him in return was stiff and not quite steady, and it gave him an odd feeling of satisfaction to know that he was capable of throwing her off balance. At least she wasn't indifferent to him. He thought he could stand anything but that. Even her hatred.

Unable to help himself, he let his gaze trail over her in a visual survey that was practically a caress, taking in the blond curls that clung to the slender line of her throat, the creamy expanse of skin bared by the low neckline of her gown. As he watched, a slow tide of pink crept into her cheeks, and he couldn't restrain the slight smile that curled his mouth at her response to his stare.

“You look lovely,” he told her, his tone rife with a husky intimacy that he couldn't seem to quell.

She inclined her head in a gracious manner, though she continued to watch him with eyes that were shadowed with distrust. “Thank you, sir. You look quite dashing yourself.”

He offered her his elbow. “Shall I escort you down, my lady?”

For a long moment, she didn't answer, merely stared at him with an unreadable expression. Then, just when he was certain she was going to refuse, she lifted her chin and slid her arm through his.

“Thank you, Mr. Quick,” she murmured.

At her touch, Peter felt a sharp tingle shoot outward from the point of contact—even through the material of her glove. It spread throughout his body until every last one of his nerve endings seemed to be standing at attention, attuned to the woman next to him.

Sucking in a calming gust of air, he retreated behind a mask of reserve as he drew her with him down the stairs. “I trust you are quite recovered from your mishap this morning?” he inquired solicitously.

“Oh, yes. Quite. My ankle hasn't bothered me at all.”
She paused for a moment, looking up at him from under lowered lashes. “By the way, I wanted to thank you for humoring Deirdre about tonight. I know you aren't looking forward to this, but it was most kind of you to agree to it.”

The surprise in her voice annoyed him, and as a result he responded a bit more sharply than he intended. “I am capable of being kind, my lady. And I care for Lady Ellington a great deal. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

She tensed next to him at the obvious reprimand, her eyes narrowing. “That's rather strange, Mr. Quick, considering that you've never seemed to be too concerned with those you've hurt in the past.”

He winced. Damnation, but what was he to say to that? That he'd done it for her own good? She would never believe him.

As it happened, he didn't have to say anything at all. The two of them had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Emily dropped Peter's arm as if he were possessed of some contagious disease before sweeping off in the direction of the parlor, leaving him to trail along behind.

It was going to be a very long night.

Upon entering the parlor in Emily's wake, Peter was immediately greeted by Lilah, who waved him over to join her and her husband, Cullen.

“So,' ere is the guest of honor,” the woman said with a wide smile. “I was beginning to think you'd run off again.”

“Not yet,” he said dryly, reaching out to shake Cullen's hand and exchange pleasantries before send
ing a glance in Emily's direction. As she stood chatting with Tristan, Deirdre, and the McLeans, the lamplight glittered in her golden hair and caressed the velvety curve of her cheek with a radiant glow, making her sparkle like the purest angel.

Too pure for the likes of you, Quick,
he told himself firmly.

At that moment, Lady Ellington looked up and caught his eye. Smiling warmly, she excused herself from her husband's side before hurrying toward him.

“Benji is here,” she informed Peter upon reaching him. She inclined her head in the direction of the fireplace, where a lone figure was ensconced in an armchair close to the hearth. “Perhaps you could go say hello.”

Peter couldn't miss the hopeful look the countess sent him. So, Tristan was right. Deirdre was worried about the lad, as well.

He supposed he couldn't blame her. The brooding expression on Benji's face was so unlike his usual cheerful countenance that Peter couldn't help doing a double take. And if Deirdre hadn't pointed out his presence, he never would have noticed the boy was even there, he'd been so still and silent.

“Of course. I shall do so at once.” Lowering his head in a brief nod to Deirdre, Lilah, and Cullen, he turned and approached Benji where he sat with his curly blond head bent over a book, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Light from the lamp on the table next to him shone on the gilt lettering emblazoned across the cover.

A Detailed Accounting of Life in Ancient Rome
.

Well, at least that much hadn't changed, Peter thought with some amusement. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the lad without his nose buried in a scholarly tome.

“Hello, Benji.” He spoke in a low tone, his gaze never wavering from the gangly young figure slumped before him. In fact, he was watching so closely that he noticed the sudden stiffening of the boy's shoulders, the visible tightening of his fingers on the leather binding of the book.

Finally, after a pause of a second or two, the lad looked up at him, his brown eyes blinking in an owlish manner behind the lenses of his wire-framed spectacles, his face devoid of any emotion. “Hello, Peter.”

Always before, Benji had greeted Peter as a much-loved elder brother, with hearty slaps on the back and excited exhortations to regale him with tales of his life as a Bow Street Runner. But not this time. The lad was cool, distant…and uneasy. It was there to see in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Something was definitely wrong.

Unfolding his lanky frame from the depths of the armchair, the boy set aside his book and rose to his feet, studying Peter from under lowered lashes that conveniently veiled his thoughts. “It's been a while,” he continued in a voice that had just started to deepen into the gravelly cadences of manhood.

“Yes, it has. I'm sorry for that.”

“I expect you've been busy.”

“And it seems you've been too busy to write.”

Benji gave a careless shrug in answer. “Yes, I suppose so,” he mumbled, glancing away.

When no further explanation was offered, Peter tried again. “I've missed your letters.”

“I'm surprised you even noticed.”

He had to suppress a guilty wince at the boy's words. “You know,” he began, hoping that Benji could read the sincerity on his face, “just because I get a bit caught up in my work doesn't mean I don't care what is going on with you. And I hope you know that if anything is wrong—anything at all—you can always talk to me.”

The lad's jaw set at a mutinous angle. “Who said anything was wrong?”

“No one in particular.” Peter had to tread carefully here. He certainly didn't want Benji to resent Tristan or Deirdre for what he might interpret as their interference. “You just seem a bit…quiet.”

“Well, everything is just fine. In fact, I've never been better.”

“You're certain?”

“Of course. Wouldn't I say so if I wasn't?”

Peter didn't believe him for a moment, but before he could say anything else, Langley appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was served.

As one, the others started to file out of the parlor, talking and laughing, though Deirdre cast one last concerned glance back at the two of them before she disappeared out the door on her husband's arm. Without hesitation, Benji took the opportunity to mutter an excuse and hurry after them as if the hounds of hell themselves were at his heels.

Oh, no, my good man
, Peter thought with grim purpose.
I'm not done with you yet.

Before he could take more than a step after the boy, however, Emily suddenly appeared in front of him, her dainty features pinched with anger.

“What did you say to him?” she hissed, her hands going to her hips in a defiant pose.

Peter's eyebrows rose. He had no desire to bicker with her, but Emily's accusatory tone put him on the defensive and prodded him into replying in a deliberately goading manner. “I'm sure I don't see where it's any business of yours.”

Her cheeks pinkened with the flush of temper and she drew herself up, her violet eyes blazing. But instead of flying up into the boughs as he had expected, her voice when she spoke was soft and icy with disdain. “Benji is like a brother to me and I have every right to be concerned about your influence on him. I don't want to see him hurt. You must have said something to send him haring off in such a way.”

Her words had him gritting his teeth against an overwhelming tide of frustration. Damn her, why must she always paint him as the villain? “I assure you, my lady, that I would never hurt Benji, and I said nothing of any importance. Perhaps he was hungry.”

“Or perhaps he has finally discovered his hero is not the man he thought him to be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Heroes do not abandon the people they are supposed to care about. They do not go away and forget to write or forget to visit. Forget to care.” Her voice qua
vered slightly and something vulnerable flashed in the depths of her eyes. Something that had him reaching out to her before he could help himself.

But she jerked back from his touch, her face hardening as she surveyed him with such scathing contempt that he flinched.

“Perhaps your defection has hurt more people than you know, Mr. Quick.”

With that, she turned on her slippered heel and swept out of the room.

In the silence that lingered, Peter felt his pulse pounding in his ears and his breath escaped him in a rush.

It would be a long night, indeed.

W
ould she never learn to control herself?

Quietly fuming, Emily sat at the dining room table, barely aware of the gay chatter going on around her as she thought back on her earlier encounter with Peter.

She had behaved like a child, she thought, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Hadn't she made up her mind that she wasn't going to let him goad her this evening? That she was going to be on her best behavior and ignore his presence as if it were of no consequence?

She should have known there would be no ignoring Peter.

She studied him where he sat at the far end of the table, deep in discussion with Tristan and the McLeans. Something her brother said must have struck him as hu
morous, because he threw his head back and laughed, a husky, pleasant sound that sent tingles running over her skin in reaction.

Dear Lord, did he have to be so very handsome? With his tawny hair tumbling over his brow in charming disarray, he possessed a boyish appeal that was hard to resist. But the way the soft blue material of his coat hugged his broad shoulders and leanly muscled physique like a second skin left little doubt that he was all man.

Her hands clenched into fists. She had to quit letting him stir up her emotions like this. Every time she allowed him to ruffle her calm façade, she wound up looking like a fool. Already tonight he'd managed to provoke her into confronting him like an irate fishwife over his interaction with Benji.

At the thought of the boy she'd always been so close to, she turned her attention to where he sat, using the silver tines of his fork to toy with the uneaten food on his plate. Like Tristan and Deirdre, Emily was concerned by his withdrawn behavior, but she was certain that badgering him about it would serve no useful purpose other than to alienate him further. It had been her fear that Peter had been doing just that, coupled with her worry over her own circumstances, that had led to her lashing out in such a manner.

You have to stop this
, she scolded herself.
This is no way to convince the man that he no longer has the power to affect you!

But she couldn't seem to help it.

“Tristan?” Deirdre suddenly spoke up from her seat next to Lilah, pulling Emily out of her ruminations.
“You never did tell us about your trip to London. Was it as terrible as you expected?”

“Worse, actually. Crowded and filthy and stifling.” Tristan sent a smile in Emily's direction. “Not that I wouldn't like to see you find a husband, Em, but did I ever tell you how grateful I am to you for standing up to Aunt Rue and refusing a Season when she insisted on one for you?”

Emily squirmed in her seat as she felt Peter's eyes settle on her with unnerving intensity. “Yes, I do believe you've mentioned it once or twice.”

Their father's sister, Ruella Palmer, Marchioness of Overton, was a stern lady who had never approved of Tristan as a guardian for Emily, or his marriage to Deirdre. But over the years, the woman had relented in her attitude and had tried to draw the family, especially Emily, back into London society. She had seemed determined to make an excellent match for her niece and had even offered to sponsor her for her expected come-out when she'd turned eighteen. But Emily had been just as determined not to be paraded before the eligible gentlemen of the
ton
like some brood mare up for auction. Wanting only her happiness, her brother had refused to coerce or pressure her in any way, and the marchioness had finally thrown her hands up in defeat.

“And Archer and Mrs. Godfrey?” the countess asked, raising an inquiring brow at her husband. “How are they?”

“The same as always.” Tristan gave a reminiscent grin. “Each of them certain they are the one in charge and never hesitating to point it out to the other.”

Elderly Archer had been the butler at the Ellington abode in London for as long as Emily could remember, and Mrs. Godfrey had been Deirdre's housekeeper when she'd first met Tristan. After the couple's marriage, Mrs. Godfrey had come to stay at the Ellington town house, and a battle of wills between the two stubborn retainers had ensued. Normally, Emily would have found her brother's tales of the servants' frequent standoffs amusing, but not now. At this moment, she was all too aware of Peter watching her, his expression unreadable.

As the meal progressed and the conversation continued, Emily found her attention drawn over and over again to the quiet, brooding man seated down the table from her. And by the time the ladies rose and excused themselves, leaving the gentlemen to their after-dinner port and cigars, she could only be grateful for the chance to escape. Unable to help herself, she cast one swift glance back over her shoulder as she departed the dining room, only to find Peter staring after her, the flickering of the candlelight that played over his lean visage giving his profile a hawklike appearance.

She suppressed a shiver.

Once back in the parlor, Lady Ellington led Lilah and Rachel McLean over to a grouping of chairs in front of the fireplace, where they seated themselves and continued their laughing conversation. Instead of joining them, however, Emily found herself wandering over to stare out the French doors, her mind a maelstrom of chaotic thoughts.

When had everything become so very complicated?

Up until a month ago, her life had been quiet and
fairly normal. She'd had her family and friends, as well as her work with the children of Willow Park. And if her existence in Little Haverton hadn't been all that exciting, at least she'd been content. But then her past had returned with a vengeance to turn her carefully ordered world upside down.

Now, on top of all that, she had Peter to contend with. Hugging herself against a sudden chill, she turned away from the window, only to find her attention caught and held by a portrait that hung above the sideboard on the far side of the room. Slowly, she drifted in that direction, her stare never wavering from the lines of the delicate face that had been so lovingly rendered.

It was a picture of her mother, Victoria Knight, the late Lady Ellington. Though she'd been only six-years of age at the time of her mother's murder, Emily could recall a laughing woman with violet eyes the same shade as her own and a gentle nature.

Much like Deirdre, the former countess had been a good Samaritan, using her spare time to minister to the needs of the poverty-stricken denizens of London's rookeries. It had been her work with these people that had led to her murder at the hands of street thieves, and the tragedy of her passing still affected all those who had known her, even after sixteen years.

By all accounts, Victoria Knight had been a kind and generous person, loving and unselfish. A veritable saint.

Dear Lord, had anyone ever truly known her? Was it possible that that innocent face had hidden a not-so-innocent heart?

“Emily?”

The soft voice at her elbow caused her to start and whirl about to find herself looking up at a concerned Deirdre.

“Emily, you've been standing here for quite some time. Are you all right, dear?”

Emily forced a smile to her face and quickly looked away, hoping her sister-in-law couldn't read the lie in her expression. “Yes. Yes, I'm fine.” She gestured toward the portrait. “I was just thinking about my mother, wishing I could have known her better. Sometimes she seems so…distant to me. At least Tristan was older when she died. His memories of her are more clear than mine will ever be.”

Deirdre joined her in studying the picture. “She was quite beautiful, wasn't she?” She reached out to tuck her arm through Emily's, drawing her close to her side. “According to your brother, she was just as beautiful on the inside. And she loved you both very much. You can take comfort in that.”

There was a long silence, then Deirdre spoke again, her manner almost tentative. “Emily, dear, I don't want to pry, but I can't help but notice the strain between you and Peter whenever you're in each other's company.”

Emily started to speak, but the countess forged onward, waving her free hand dismissively. “No. Please don't make excuses. I don't pretend to know what happened before he left for London that caused such a rift between the two of you, and I have no intention of asking, though it goes against my better judgment. However, I do want you to remember that he is here to help
the people of Little Haverton, and if you could make some sort of effort, reach out to him just a little bit, then perhaps you could get past this initial…awkwardness.”

Emily swallowed, casting her gaze down at the carpet as her heart seemed to suddenly increase its pace. “I rather doubt that, Deirdre.”

The older woman turned and took a few steps away from the portrait, tugging Emily along with her. “Hadn't you mentioned earlier today that you planned on visiting Lord and Lady Tuttleston at some point tomorrow?”

“Yes, I did, but—”

“Perhaps if you would allow Peter to accompany you? He does need to speak with them regarding the break-in at their house, and they might be more comfortable answering his questions in your presence. You know how fond they are of you. And you might consider lending him your assistance in other aspects of his investigation, as well. I'm certain he could use your help, what with your knowledge of Little Haverton.”

Emily stiffened. Deirdre wanted her to voluntarily spend time in Peter's company? She couldn't possibly know what she was asking. “That might not be such a good idea.”

“Emily, please?” Deirdre's green eyes importuned her. “I hate to see you and Peter at odds when you used to be so close. Please, do this for your brother and me. We won't ask you for anything else, I promise.”

Heavens, how could Emily possibly say no to such a heartfelt request? She took a fortifying breath. “Very well,” she heard herself say, praying she was able to keep the trepidation she felt from coming through in
her voice. “I'll speak to Peter about it when the opportunity presents itself. Perhaps after he's seen the constable in the morning.”

“There's no time like the present.” Deirdre inclined her head in the direction of the French doors. “He's out on the terrace.”

Emily looked around, surprised to discover that she must have been so absorbed in her contemplation of her mother's portrait that she hadn't noticed when the gentlemen had rejoined them. Tristan, Cullen, and Angus McLean had seated themselves with the other ladies and were laughing at one of Lilah's remarks, while Benji had returned to the chair next to the fireplace and the book he'd been reading earlier.

The French doors where she'd been standing just a short time ago stood open to the warm night air.

Emily swallowed nervously. The mere thought of approaching Peter, alone on the terrace, in the dark, was enough to have gooseflesh breaking out across the exposed skin of her arms. “Perhaps this isn't the best time—”

Deirdre gave her a nudge toward the doors. “Go on. I'm sure he won't mind. He'll more than likely be grateful for your offer of help.”

Emily wasn't so certain about that, but she started across the parlor with measured steps, mentally shoring up her courage. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea, she tried to convince herself. After all, if she stuck close to Peter, accompanied him on his interviews, she could keep track of where he was in his investigation.

And make certain he didn't get too close to the truth.

She shrugged off another pang of guilt. She would not allow herself to feel ashamed over doing what needed to be done in order to preserve her family.

Straightening her shoulders, she stepped out onto the terrace.

 

Peter leaned back against the stone balustrade with an exhalation of air, enjoying the light breeze that brushed against his face. This was more like it. Out here he felt better able to breathe. Inside the house had been stifling.

Not that he hadn't been glad for the chance to catch up with the people who had made such a difference in his life. Lilah was as amusing as always, and it was nice to see the McLeans and Benji, despite the boy's less than receptive mood.

And Emily…

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Even with the resentful glares she had thrown his way throughout dinner, that lovely profile had drawn his gaze, and his pulse had sped up every time those misty violet eyes met his.

He couldn't deny he deserved her ire. Apparently he'd hurt her far more with his defection four years ago than he'd even suspected.

Turning, he gripped the railing with both hands, his hold tightening until his knuckles turned white. The smell of jasmine drifted to him from the garden beyond the terrace, teasing his senses with its exotic fragrance.

Out there, just past the expertly trimmed boxwood
hedges, near the copse of elms that stood sentinel next to the central fountain, was the spot where he had once almost made love to Emily.

His mouth went dry with remembrance. He could still visualize the way she had looked that night, with her hair tousled about her shoulders and her lips swollen by his savage kisses. The sound of her breathy moans and soft sighs echoed in his head as if it had happened only yesterday.

“Love me, Peter my darling…”

“Peter?”

The voice floated to him like a continuation of his memories, and for a brief moment he thought he was still lost in the past.

“Peter? Are you there?”

It was louder this time, jerking him from his haze, and as he whirled to face the house, he saw Emily step out of the darkness and into the path of a stray moon-beam that spilled across the terrace.

This was no memory. She was all too real.

Immediately, he smoothed his features into a mask of cool composure and shoved his hands in his pockets, attempting to project a façade of casual nonchalance that he was far from feeling. This woman had already proven that she was all too adept at stealing past his defenses, and he couldn't afford to let down his guard with her. Not even for an instant. “Lady Emily? What are you doing out here?”