A Most Improper Rumor (3 page)

Chapter 3

A
licia adjusted her hair as they pulled up in front of the town house and strove for a modicum of decorum, but the truth was, the servants knew full well she slept in her husband’s bed—everyone would soon know that—and one brief kiss was hardly enough to blush over.

Still, there was perhaps a hint of heat in her cheeks when Ben handed her out of the carriage, but that was between the two of them, not everyone else.

He’d declared he was happy about the pregnancy. In her heart she’d hoped he would be, but his expression when she’d told him hadn’t revealed much about his sentiments on the idea of a coming child, and whether it was deliberate or not, it had taken her aback.

She’d taken him off guard.
He
never failed to throw her off balance, but in compensation, she had the notion she never failed to surprise him either, which, with Ben, was actually quite an accomplishment.

Would her marriage forever be a game of wits?

She wasn’t sure. But of one thing she
was
sure. Their relationship would never suffer from boredom, and in retrospect, perhaps his guarded heart had drawn her from the beginning. From their very first introduction, his complexity had fascinated her and she doubted that would ever change.

“Upstairs?” His breath was warm against her ear and his hand supportive at her elbow as they entered the foyer.

“Whether or not you choose to continue this discussion in an intimate setting is quite up to you,” she said with a suitably prim tone. “But we are not finished, my lord.”

“What else is there for us to say?” He guided her toward the elegant staircase.

She murmured, “I don’t think in this lifetime we will be able to say everything we need to say to each other.”

How did a person articulate love to someone who refused to admit it existed?

“Perhaps not, but let me start this way.” He proceeded to demonstrate by lowering his mouth to hers the minute they were inside the door of his bedchamber, his hands coming possessively to her waist, pulling her to his body in a completely sexual way, thigh to thigh, his hardness against her softness.

At once she understood. What he couldn’t articulate, he wanted to tell her another way, and since she loved him, she not only allowed it, but embraced it.

That didn’t mean
she
couldn’t say the words. “I love you,” she murmured against his lips. “I love our child already.”

“Alicia.” His hands were busy at her gown, but they stilled. “I would give my life for you.”

Not exactly what she was looking for, but she had to give a small laugh. She touched his lean jaw. “Don’t, please. Stay with me forever.”

If he wasn’t quite ready to say the words, she could wait, especially when he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. He followed her down, braced on his elbows, for a moment looking into her eyes, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Can we? I mean—”

“We can.” She was warm all over, needy, the heat between her thighs pronounced. “I cannot get more pregnant, after all.”

His fingers stilled on her bodice. “It isn’t that; I just—”

“I asked my sister. It is fine.”

For a normally self-possessed English nobleman, Ben looked disconcerted. “You told your sister first about the babe?”

“I’m afraid so.” She took the opportunity to tug his cravat free. “That is what sisters do. We confide in each other. She has children. Naturally I had some questions. Besides, as I said, I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain.”

“So, I’m the last to know,” he muttered with endearing irritation, standing and stripping out of his jacket. “She will have told her husband, and he will have mentioned it at our club, and probably my matronly aunts are already knitting little sweaters and
I
had no idea.”

Alicia laughed, sitting up to unpin her hair. “You should pay more attention, my lord.”

“I suppose I should. Normally I am considered to be quite observant.” His vivid hazel eyes were shadowed by lowered lashes as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “However, I admit females are unpredictable and more difficult to decipher than a French code.”

“Is that what you did during the war?” She’d always been curious.

As usual, he didn’t answer directly. “The war is over and why would I even think about anything at this moment except making love to you? Did you know your hair shimmers in the candlelight?”

That was extremely poetic for Benjamin. “No,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

“With pleasure.”

He did so, easing her down and unfastening her gown as he leisurely explored her mouth, the touch of his tongue demanding and provocative. Heated desire was an intoxicant, and Alicia sighed into his mouth in both pleasure and surrender.

“These are decidedly larger.” To emphasize, one hand cupped her bared right breast and lifted it, assessing the change. “Not that you were lacking before, but you are somehow more womanly.”

More sensitive too, if the tremor that went through her was indicative of her depth of desire. She looked into his eyes, and her soul was soothed at the emotion there. Always she’d been sure he felt it; she just wasn’t positive he would admit it to himself.

Never had he declared it to her.

“I feel quite womanly at the moment,” she admitted, sifting her fingers through his thick hair and lifting her hips. His erection was evident even through his breeches, and she slipped her other hand down between the press of their bodies to fumble with the fastenings keeping it from her.

In the end he gently removed her fingers. “Allow me.” He was out of the garment swiftly, and then he stripped her gown and chemise away, positioning himself over her supine body. “I want you.”

With a measure of boldness she had never dared before, she touched the erect length of his arousal. It was smooth but hard, and hot under her questing fingers. “I want you also.”

He actually closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. “Don’t do that.”

“You don’t like it?” An innocent question with a not-so-innocent insinuation.

“I like it far too much.”

What she liked was to be able to rattle that usual cool detachment, but before she could reflect on what to possibly do next, he ran his hand down the inside of her thigh to the sensitive flesh behind her knee and then back up again to the juncture of her thighs. One long finger slipped inside her. “I like this even better.”

Her spine arched involuntarily. “Ben.”

His finger did something wicked. “Shall I replace this?”

“With something more substantial? By all means.” Only with effort could she keep some semblance of teasing smoothness in her voice.

She was far too involved. Far too romantic, she acknowledged as he moved above her, far too much in love with her husband. Her legs opened at the pressure of his knees, and she consciously relaxed as he began to enter her, concentrating on the pleasure.

The possession.

The sheer intimacy of it.

“Perfect,” he whispered in her ear as he began to move, and she couldn’t help but notice he was restrained, each inward glide more careful than usual, each withdrawal slow and measured, and she was the one who pressed her hands urgently to the small of his back as sensation began to build, her breath small pants. “Ben.”

“Wait,” he admonished, his hair brushing her cheek as he moved in a smooth rhythm. “It will still happen . . . Just wait.”

* * *

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple and Ben ignored it, his taut body clamoring for release, but his control was rigid and it wasn’t until Alicia started to climax that he allowed a crack in his resolve to not be too importunate.

Her inner muscles tightened around his cock, his mind went blank at the exquisite sensation, and he shuddered, going rigid at the same time she cried out and her nails dug into his skin.

The aftermath was quiet, his room shrouded, and he shifted his weight, her slender form a contrast to his much-taller body.

“I didn’t hurt you.”

“No.” Alicia laughed, a breathless sound. “You certainly didn’t. I’m not made out of glass now, darling; I’m just with child.”

She felt delicate beneath him, fragile and vulnerable. “I had every intention of being less demanding.”

“I think I was the demanding one.” She touched his cheek, her eyes sparkling.

Had she not stretched then, the tips of her peaked breasts brushing his chest, he might have been able to say something vaguely intelligent.

Perhaps.

But doubtful.

Carefully he eased free, and then reclined beside her, his fingers feathering down her cheek.

“You can demand whatever you wish from me.”

His magnanimous mood vanished when she said, “I think I would like to meet with Lady DeBrooke.”

“What? No.” He couldn’t help the slight scowl. The breeze from the open window brushed his heated skin.

“As I did with my sister, Hattie, she will tell me what she wouldn’t tell you. Women talk to women. I have a few questions you could never get her to answer.”

He couldn’t help but admire—and be distracted by—how her shining dark hair tumbled over her pale shoulders and bared breasts. “It is possible she’s a murderess.”

“But you don’t think so.”

He blew out a short breath. “No.”

“Then what is the harm?”

“I think our short partnership in investigation together has come to an end.”

For that he received a killing look of disillusionment. “Why?”

“God, Alicia, why do you think? I am not going to risk my wife and my child.”

“She isn’t going to poison my cup of tea. If she was that foolish, she’d have been caught long ago.” To his disappointment, she pulled the sheet up to cover her nudity, giving a delectable feminine yawn as she settled against the pillows. “I’m quite hungry. Is it possible you could sneak down to the kitchen and pilfer some of that pudding?”

Had he not done some questionable things during the war—and it was his own kitchen after all—he might have taken issue with the term pilfer. As it was, he rose from the bed and found his dressing gown. “Would you like anything else?”

“If there is cheese and bread . . . that sounds delicious.”

She was the one who looked delicious, sleepy and gorgeously tousled from his lovemaking. He predicted, “You’ll be fast asleep when I return.”

“Then wake me.” Her lashes drifted lower.

Tying his sash more firmly around his waist, he went out of the room, closing the door quietly, and headed for the stairs and then the back of the house. He was in the kitchen so infrequently that in the dark it took him several wrong turns to find it.

Luckily, one of the footmen was in there, enjoying a cup of ale, and rose hastily to his feet. “My lord.”

Since he didn’t normally prowl the house in his dressing gown, Ben merely quirked a brow in amusement at the young man’s evident surprise. “It seems I need a slice of the pudding we were served earlier and perhaps some bread and cheese. I’d appreciate some direction.”

“Of course, sir.”

The pudding, he discovered, was on a sideboard in the pantry, and a variety of cheeses kept in a cupboard by the large scrubbed table, along with various dried fruits. Bread had been freshly baked and sat cooling on long racks; he eyed it dubiously, not certain he wanted to infringe on the cook’s menu for the next day.

“For Lady Heathton, she won’t mind,” the young man said helpfully, “especially considering her condition.”

So it was true; everyone
did
know but him. Ben swore softly, picked out a fragrant loaf that seemed to be studded with currants and nuts, and put it on a plate with a couple slices of cheese. “Thank you . . .”

“Robert, my lord.”

He knew entirely too little about his own household, he thought as he took the tray upstairs.

Which might be pertinent, actually. It wasn’t that he hadn’t recognized the footman; he just hadn’t known his name or how long he’d been in his service. He obviously interacted with his secretary and steward often, and the butler and housekeeper, but he didn’t really pay attention to the coming and going of the other household staff.

Interesting. Who could have gained acceptance into Lady DeBrooke’s household and had access to the kitchen?

He doubted she knew. He wouldn’t.

Shouldering the door open, he saw his prediction was quite correct. Alicia was asleep, breathing gently, her shoulders bare above the drawn sheet, long lashes throwing shadows on her cheekbones.

Tray in hand, he stood there in the shadows, just gazing at her.

In repose, she was . . . dangerous. Not because she was beautiful—though she was that—and not because she was his wife and carried his child, but because she threatened his peace of mind.

The ordered life he’d resigned himself to the day he inherited his father’s title and responsibilities was not reflected in Alicia’s adventurous spirit.

Did she complete him, or just confound him?

The answer was elusive.

He deposited the tray on the table beside the bed and gently tried to wake her without success, which made him laugh indulgently, one hand smoothing her bare shoulder, his mood unexpectedly light.

What made a man choose one woman over all the others? Her smile, the way she walked across the room, the timbre of her voice, the lilt of her laugh?

All he knew was he was truly in trouble because he had no idea how to be in love. And yet it had happened.

Chapter 4

T
he rain tapping at the window matched the rhythm of his fingers drumming on the table. Christopher Durham, Baron Lowe, restlessly picked up his glass of wine and drained it.

One more word and he might explode.

It would be ill-advised, reckless, and not appreciated from any quarter, but it still might happen. Usually he prided himself on his self-restraint, but this particular conversation was sorely testing that resolve.

“She’s
deliciously
dangerous, if you ask me.” One of the men currently sitting at the card table actually chuckled after he said the words. “Given the opportunity, I’d fuck her and take my chances.”

Christopher’s hands rolled into fists.

“I don’t disagree, but word has it the Dark Angel is entirely unavailable.” George Harris, who was actually a friend, tossed in several coins to the pile on the table. “The return to London hasn’t changed that. The exquisite Lady DeBrooke remains aloof.”

“I think I’ll raise you, Forsythe.” His hand wasn’t particularly good, but if it was possible to divert the conversation, Christopher wished to do so.

The money lost would be worth it.

“I don’t know if I would deem her unattainable.” The fourth man was older, his demeanor smooth, and Christopher didn’t know him all that well. “Care to make a wager on it? After all, she’s a widow, and given some latitude, younger women are not. Mayhaps she wants a lover.”

“I might just be tempted to take your money,” one of the other men said cheerfully.

She
has
a lover and this is going entirely too far
.

Christopher folded his hands on the baize and said with lethal sincerity, “I thought we were gentlemen, and that means we do not wager on compromising a lady’s virtue, nor do we seek her out to win such a bet. If any of you enter this into the books at Whites’, I will take distinct umbrage and call you out. Understood?”

Unfortunately, he rather thought they did understand and when even with his less-than-perfect hand he won the round, as the other two excused themselves, George remained, eyeing him thoughtfully. “You are moody tonight and I am sitting here asking myself if it is the inclement weather or the topic at hand. I’m inclined toward the latter.”

“It’s been damned dreary,” he muttered, gathering his winnings.

“That it has.” George wisely didn’t pursue it. “More claret?’

“No, thank you. I’m leaving.”

“It might be best.”

“What the devil does that mean?”

“I’m not going to argue with you.” George lifted his hands in supplication, his grin crooked. “You’re surly and it isn’t in character. Whoever she is, she has you off balance.”

Whoever she is
.

Maybe not so off balance that he couldn’t find some humor in the situation. “What makes you think it is a woman?”

“Because the leap to chivalry was both impetuous and heartfelt.”

As long as no one made the obvious connection. Christopher took a moment and said quietly, “Gossip can be hurtful, and especially to women. We tend to ignore it, but they take it to heart.”

“It is gallant of you to defend Lady DeBrooke.”

Was there speculation in his friend’s voice? He sure as hell hoped not. He shrugged. “She was acquitted.”

To his relief, George seemed to also dismiss the ugly rumors. “So she was. If you are departing, I might just venture into the ballroom. I’ve been avoiding it all night, but a perfunctory dance or two is in order. My father is pressing me to marry.”

Christopher rose and nodded. Had his father still been alive, no doubt his circumstances would be the same.

There was no inclination on his part to waltz with a debutante. He had an appointment to keep.

* * *

She was going to be late.

Angelina might insist on this damnable secrecy, but she rarely kept him waiting.

This evening had been particularly trying. First, her sister-in-law had called. It was an infrequent event, but it did happen, and their barely concealed animosity was never pleasant to endure. Angelina had offered tea; Margaret had accepted. They’d sat there, sipping in genteel dislike, and she’d wondered the entire time why they needed to keep up the façade of friendship when in truth, they hadn’t even liked each other when Angelina had been married to Margaret’s brother. Then, when Thomas’s sister had departed, another visitor had arrived, at an extremely unfashionable time.

But there was no way in heaven she would refuse an audience with Lady Heathton.

The earl’s wife was a slender woman with rich, dark hair, unusual blue eyes, and a pale, perfect complexion. Angelina had been in seclusion during the countess’s debut, but it was easy to imagine Heathton’s wife had been a sensation, and while she’d never doubted his intelligence, his instincts as a man went up in her estimation.

“Please have a seat,” Angelina said as graciously as possible, wondering just what his lordship had told his wife.

Surely her visit to him and this call so soon afterward were connected.

“Thank you.” Alicia Wallace chose a damask-covered chair in blue silk just a shade lighter than her eyes and settled into it. Quite obviously she was dressed for the evening in an elegant gown of white tulle embroidered with tiny leaves, dark yellow ribbon at the frothy sleeves, the theme suitable to the fall weather and certainly emphasizing her delicate beauty.

Warily, Angelina asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Countess?”

“I understand my husband is helping you clear your name.”

“Oh?” She sat back, wrists deceptively relaxed on the arms of her chair. “I suppose my declarations of innocence are public knowledge anyway, but it would be gratifying to have proof.”

“Ben told me.”

Just how much
had
he told her? “It was very kind of him to consider offering me his aid. I’m uninterested in being a pariah the rest of my life. Can you blame me?”

That was neutral enough. Also true.

“I can see where that would wear thin quickly,” Lady Heathton said agreeably. “And, like you, I’d be more than concerned in finding out who had tampered with my life. What else can you tell me?”

“What is it you wish to know?”

The woman sitting across from her looked thoughtful and absently adjusted her elegant glove on her upper arm. “I suppose I’d like to know whatever you can tell me about the matter at hand. A hint at why you might be targeted for such malicious retaliation would be a good place to start.”

“I told your husband—”

“Only just enough to get him to look into the problem,” Lady Heathton said calmly. “I don’t blame you, as it is personal, and certainly sharing it with a male you don’t know well at all would be daunting. I wondered if you would find it easier to tell me more.”

“He sent you?”

“Well, no.” Alicia laughed lightly, shaking her head. “To be truthful, he forbade me to involve myself in any way. While I respect his wishes, I also have a perfectly functioning mind and if I can help, I would like to. Sometimes men are blinded by small prejudices and preconceived notions about our sex in general.”

Then and there, Angelina started to like her uninvited guest. Twice married, she’d never had such self-assurance. “You aren’t worried he’ll be angry?”

“A little,” she admitted with charming candor. “Actually, I would wager I will get a stern lecture when he learns of this visit, but he is a fair man and if this proves fruitful, he will duly acknowledge that.”

No doubt the earl was not entirely convinced she wasn’t a murderess, Angelina thought with a hint of resigned humiliation, which was why he forbade his wife to talk to her.

“So,” Lady Heathton said, “what
could
be helpful? You initiated the meeting with Ben, so I assume you want the best outcome possible. Anything might be useful.”

“I can’t really think of anyone who wishes me ill.” Angelina rubbed her temple. “And I’ve tried. Believe me.”

She had. She’d sat through hundreds of lonely, miserable nights now, wanting the slightest hint of why.

“A man? He wanted you,” Lady Heathton suggested. “But you refused him?”

It
was
freeing to talk about it all so openly. “If so, I can’t imagine who he is.” Angelina shook her head. “Both my marriages were arranged. Your husband asked the same thing. I’ve had no clandestine lovers.”

Well, until now, but Christopher was still her special secret.

“Are there any ardent suitors you perhaps didn’t realize were more serious than it appeared? I mean, we all receive sonnets and flowers, but some men are shy of rejection, and I, for one, can’t blame them, though most don’t murder their rivals.” Alicia Wallace pursed her mouth in open contemplation. “One must admit that hidden passion has accounted for more than one drama in the history of mankind.”

That was astute, and probably true.

“There were other suitors, of course.” It was difficult now for Angelina to recall the warm glow of how society embraced her when she first made her bow, and even her second entry into the exalted ranks of the
ton
. “Before both engagements, men called frequently, but, flowery declarations of love aside, none was truly serious except Thomas, and that was why I married him. I thought it would be different. William wanted a beautiful wife. Thomas wanted
me
.”

Looking back, she wished she could have willed herself to love him in the same way, but she’d been fond of him and a dutiful wife. Now that she was truly in love, she was grateful her feelings had not run deeper than affection and a comfortable friendship. The horror of his death would have destroyed her life.

That was why she approached Heathton in the first place. If the murderer struck again, she knew she could not bear another loss—and this time of a man she deeply loved. Passionately loved.

“Maybe it is a woman.
She
wanted
him
,” Lady Heathton responded, her head tilted slightly to the side in contemplation. “And you took him. Both the men you married were titled and rich.”

“It could be,” Angelina said, pondering, her voice low. “I have no idea if they had mistresses before, or even during our marriage, but you’d think she would kill me, not them, and certainly not
both
of them. It is too much of a stretch to my mind to believe they had the same mistress.”

Her visitor seemed to mull that over. “True. But poison is much more a woman’s method of killing. Men tend to be physical and use force of some kind, be it blade or bullet. Look at the famous cases in history of women who used lethal means to eliminate their enemies. Most of them used poison. The Borgias . . . Catherine de Medici, just for example.”

That was probably accurate, though Angelina was hardly an expert on the subject. “I’ve thought about the kitchen staff, of course. None of them were in both households. William was older and his servants had been in place for years, or at least most of them, and they stayed when the estate went to his cousin. When I married Thomas, we let the housekeeper hire the kitchen help. William died at our country estate. Thomas was in London.”

No connection.

“Very astute,” Lady Heathton said in evident admiration.

Angelina might not be well versed in the murderous habits of historical women; but she did have a brain and was capable of using it, and this was her
life
. She added quietly, “It isn’t as if I haven’t thought about it.”

“I believe I understand.”

“I’ve been tormented for quite some time, as you can imagine, just wondering who and why. I swear to you, Lady Heathton, I have absolutely no idea.”

“But it has to be there. The thread tying it all together exists. We just have to discover it.”

They looked at each other. “I agree,” Angelina said slowly. “It is kind of you to help me.”

“I rather savor the challenge.”

At one time, she’d smiled often. Freely, with genuine warmth and giving. Now smiling was rare, so when she found her lips curving, it surprised her. “I think you do.”

“Besides, I believe you,” Alicia Wallace said with conviction. “That is actually why I came here, risking my husband’s censure over my actions. I wanted to speak with you myself and see if I thought you were telling the truth.”

“And?”

“You are.”

It had been a long time since she’d had a friend. Or at least a new one. Most of her self-proclaimed friends had deserted her long ago and only a few remained loyal during those nightmarish months. Up until now, Angelina hadn’t even realized how much she missed the sense of camaraderie. However, friends could be shallow,
and
friends could be deep. She’d an overabundance of the former and not enough of the latter.

Her guest rose then, nodding, all elegance and poise in her beautiful gown. “I believe you don’t have any more of an idea who did this than I do at this time. However, my husband will find out, so there is no need to worry, and you have already given me some valuable information. I will be sure to pass it on.”

“What information?” Angelina stood also, blinking.

“About the kitchen staff, for one. I assume you also had different maids and housekeepers.”

“We did.”

“But there has to be a link between the two deaths.”

Find it. Please find it
.

Alicia Wallace said, “I am sorry to be abrupt, but please excuse me. We have an engagement and I’m going to be late if I do not hurry. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course.”

Lady Heathton left in an eddy of expensive perfume and Angelina stood there, more than a little moody. Once upon a time she received coveted invitations to various functions on a daily basis. She’d been lauded, feted, and desired.

Look what it had gotten her.

Nothing. A wasteland of sorrow and disgrace and abhorrence in the aftermath. Two dead husbands, a notoriously scandalous trial, and one elusive deadly enemy. Her own family hadn’t stood by her, nor did they deign to contact her other than through a few obligatory letters now and then. Her newfound happiness was so tenuous that of course she hadn’t told them she’d finally met the right man—the perfect man—and had fallen in love, nor did she intend to do so.