Always a Temptress (20 page)

J
esus, Kate!
Talk
to me!”

Oh, she was going to regret whatever it was she’d just done to set Murther off. She felt as if she’d fallen down a…oh.

Kate opened her eyes to find herself lying on the marble floor of the entryway. Above her bobbed various heads, and beyond, the entryway ceiling with its cream-colored rotunda and skylight, which was beginning to lighten. Her head was in Harry’s lap, and it hurt. “Finney,” she said, surprised at how faint she sounded. “Call in the painters. The cornice work has begun to peel.”

Reaction hadn’t set in yet. Her body was still numb with shock, not yet deciding where to hurt. The terror of those last seconds, the shattering realization of what had happened, still hovered just beyond reach. She was too familiar with the progression to be surprised by it, which helped her sound calm as she braced for the inevitable.

Harry let loose a harsh bark of laughter. “You scared the devil out of me!” he protested. “Can you move?”

She made an attempt and awoke a million nerve endings. “Under protest. Harry, something’s wrong with the steps.”

“No there isn’t,” he assured her. “You were in too big of a hurry and missed one.”

She shook her head and instantly regretted it. “No. There’s something slippery on the second step down. Grease, I think, if the speed of my descent was any indication.”

She turned her head gingerly again. “Don’t let anyone up those stairs until it’s checked.”

Finney straightened. “I’ll do it meself.” Kate had the most distressing suspicion there were tears in his eyes.

“I’m fine, Finney. Although I will be sporting bruises on very delicate places.”

Other staff came thundering in as Finney turned to carefully mount the stairs. Kate was mortified. They’d probably all thought that they were seeing their paychecks evaporate, poor things. Harry busied himself feeling Kate’s arms and legs for breaks, which she was sure she should resent more, especially when he hit a sore spot. She was oddly comforted by the panic she’d seen on his face, though.

“I really am all right,” she assured him, reassured by her own assessment. “I’ll bruise, but only in places no one will see. I seem to have the luck of the devil. At least that’s what Edwin is forever telling me.”

He didn’t seem comforted. “How could you do something so silly?”

“I didn’t.” A memory surfaced, threatening her breath. She instinctively looked up past where Finney was bent over that second stair, but the hallway was predictably empty. “Harry, somebody was up there when I fell. I saw a shadow.”

Harry was just about to deny it when Finney turned, his eyes wide. “There’s a big pool of grease up here, like somebody spilled a skillet.”

Predictably, Maurice was insulted. “No grease leaves the kitchen of Maurice!” he protested, waving one of his larger knives. “He will not have it!”

But Kate was looking at Harry, who seemed to reach the same conclusion as she. Someone in her house had made sure someone would take a header down the steps. Possibly someone she or Harry trusted.

“Come on,” Harry said rather briskly as he gathered her into his arms. “You’re for bed and the doctor while we clean that stair off.”

“I can walk,” she protested, although she found herself wrapping a sore arm around Harry’s neck. “I don’t want to frighten the staff.”

“Too late,” she heard and looked over to see Thrasher white-faced.

He could break her heart, that one. “Hold the call for the undertaker, Thrasher. He’s not needed.” She flashed him a cheeky grin. “Besides, he’d just overcharge us.”

She wasn’t convinced she had made the boy feel any better. After the life he’d led, she wasn’t sure she could. She needed to hide herself away before she scared everyone. The “shock shakes,” as she called them, were beginning to set in. Finally giving in to the inevitable, she laid her head on Harry’s shoulder. “Watch out for that second step.”

“He got in the
house
!” Harry yelled, leaning over Drake’s desk. “The house!”

“Are you sure?” Drake asked. “It wasn’t just an accident?”

Harry slammed a fist on the desk. “I’m sure. Kate was almost killed, because an assassin got past all your men and strolled into my bloody house! It wouldn’t be so bad, but I’d just told you about the man Grace saw.”

“You did,” Ian Ferguson agreed from where he was sprawled over one of the armchairs. “I heard you myself.”

“And me,” Chuffy agreed from his place by the window where he’d been counting the passing curricles. “Heard you say you’d take care of it. Didn’t. Five.”

Drake offered a wry smile. “My men suspect the butler.”

Ian guffawed. “Finney? Oh, laddie, I want to be there when you tell him.”

“Well, you won’t,” Drake said agreeably. “You’re off to France in the morning.”

Ian gave a great gusty sigh. Harry turned on him. “France?”

Ian showed him teeth. “Haven’t they decided that there’s nothing for it but that I protect the big man himself?”

Chuffy choked. “Bigger than you?”

Ian glared. “Wellington, ya daft bugger.”

Harry frowned. “Then who’s going to help me protect my Katie?”

“
Your
Katie?” Drake countered drily.

It was Harry’s turn to glare. “You’re the one who made sure we married. You should be relieved that I’m trying to acclimate to it.”

Harry wasn’t about to share the new feelings Kate had unleashed in him last night. Her sobs had torn something loose in him, something that had long since scarred over, and he could feel it bleed. It made this newest threat to her unbearable.

“I’m just relieved you haven’t killed each other,” Drake admitted. “Since you’re here bellowing in my ear, can I assume the lady didn’t take much injury from her fall?”

Harry shoved a hand through his hair. “How do I know? You can’t tell a thing with that woman.” Actually, if he’d understood Lady Bea correctly, Kate was used to batterings like the one she’d had that morning, which made him feel even worse. No one needed to know that, though.

“I’ll come help,” Chuffy offered. “Like Kate. Six…oh, wait. That’s a tilbury.”

“We all will,” Drake said, and pulled out a thick file. “In fact, I already have. I have histories on every one of Kate’s employees.”

“Bet it’s interesting reading,” Chuffy said.

Drake scowled. “Like a Fielding novel. The reason we were looking at the butler is because he came to Kate’s employ from Newgate. He was hanged for murder.”

“Since he’s walking around, I assume they did a shoddy job,” Ian said.

“Also worked as a fortune-teller, the half man half ape at Tim’s Tiny Circus…”

Chuffy laughed. “
That’s
where I know him. Quite convincin’.”

Drake scowled again. “And boxer. You want to know about her chef?”

Harry grabbed the file. “No. Remember, I fought alongside these men, and they were certainly no worse than the soldiers I’ve fought alongside for ten years. It’s not her staff. Find out who it is. I don’t suppose you’ve had any better luck finding Axman Billy than I have.”

Drake shook his head. “Your Thrasher has the best nose in the Dials, and he’s come up empty. We’ll increase the watch on your house until we get lucky.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the four of them tossed around ideas on Kate’s security, until Harry felt his fears for her ease a bit.

Drake must have seen his growing impatience, because he finally set down his pen and stood. “I’m sure Harry thanks us for our diligence, gentlemen. But for now I believe he wants to get back to enjoy his wife.”

He didn’t have to tell Harry twice.

Kate hated lying in bed. She hated being passive. She hated hurting. Mostly, she hated wondering why. Not why she’d been helped down the steps. That was easy and understandable. She was a danger to someone, and they’d tried to stop her.

She hurt a little bit everywhere, and that shivery, nauseous feeling of shock plagued her. But those were old acquaintances. She’d suffered worse from Murther after a bad night at cards. But those injuries had never kept her in bed, no matter the cost. She had always refused to admit that Murther could hurt her so badly.

Today was different. Her injuries weren’t bad, as injuries went. Her emotions were much more problematic. Suddenly she was prey to the most unpardonable urge to cry, and over something that had happened all of ten years ago. Surely a killer in the house should trump that.

Evidently, it didn’t.

She supposed she should have felt surprised by what Harry had revealed about her father. Shocked. What shocked her was that she really wasn’t that surprised at all. She was just crushingly sad. Afraid. Ashamed.

Why had Papa said those things? What had she done that could be so bad, he would accuse her of whoring herself at only fifteen? And with
George
, for God’s sake. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t recall a transgression so great that it would turn her own father against her.

Surely she should have easily remembered such a moment, for it would have changed everything for her. But her life had never changed. From her earliest memories she’d lived the same way. Cook had petted her, and George had hugged her, but mostly it had seemed as if she didn’t exist. As if she were being shunned, but never told why.

She had tried so hard to break through that invisible wall, especially with Papa. She’d left painstakingly written letters for him, earnestly drawn pictures. Carefully collected sparrow’s nests. Wildflowers tied into limp little clumps, and a lopsided sampler that said
HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER
. He had never even acknowledged getting them.

Aunt Maude had told her that her father couldn’t look at her because she bore such a resemblance to her mother, whom she’d killed. But Kate had always known better. After all, how could he know she looked like her mother? He’d never known her mother when she was nine.

Kate had always suspected it was something more. A defect of some kind that was only discernible on closer acquaintance. It was the only reason she could think that a man so beloved by everyone couldn’t seem to love her. Was there something in her that repelled good men and turned mean ones into monsters? Was Murther all she deserved after all? She had never had the courage to ask.

No, that was wrong. She had screwed up her courage twice. The first had been when she was being called to account for calling her sister a bird-witted harridan. She’d been standing in front of Papa’s big oak desk, hands behind her back like a good girl, her face scrubbed and her hair neatly tied back with a grosgrain ribbon. She hadn’t known whether to be thrilled to be with her papa or terrified of his displeasure.

“Dolores Catherine,” he’d said, barely looking at her. “Your sisters are grown women with families of their own. They deserve your respect and obedience.”

“But Frances says that you hate me,” her eleven-year-old self had said and trembled. “She said that everybody hates me.”

Ah, there it was, she thought, looking back. That unconscious flinch, the fleeting grimace, as if the emotion provoked was intense, unpleasant. The long, stiff silence.

“Nonsense.”

She couldn’t remember. Had she quailed, or had she thrown her shoulders back in defiance of the truth? “Why would she say that?” she’d asked.

But he’d told her their interview was over and sent her away still not knowing.

When she’d asked a second time, he’d slapped her.

She knew she was being unpardonably maudlin. Her father was dead these four years. She would find no answers there. But suddenly she felt small and insignificant and alone, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
Helpless
, she heard in her head, as if she’d been sitting in the dark.
Worthless.

Promiscuous
. Thank God George would never understand what his beloved uncle had accused him of.

And Harry. Oh, God, what did she do about him? How could she hold on to her resentment when he had never been at fault? How could she blame him? He hadn’t stood a chance, not when her own father condemned her.

He had said he loved her once. But he’d only known her for six weeks. What would happen when he was forced to live with her for years? Did she have the courage to wait day after day for him to follow the way of her father? Or should she send him off as soon as she could and spare them both?

Oh, hell. She was crying again. She
hated
crying. It was such a pointless sport, useful only for prodding gentlemen into buying trips to Rundell and Bridge. Only Harry wasn’t the kind of gentleman who frequented jewelers. He had given her something different. Not jewelry. Strong arms and silent support. Something she’d finally identified as comfort.

The memory of those moments were what finally propelled her out of bed. When she stood up, her breath hissed out of her throat at the pain. It didn’t stop her, though. She had to walk off the memories of the night before.

He had been so kind, so understanding. He’d held her in his arms as if he would be her shelter against a storm. Kate had seen Harry’s family hug, of course. They had never been able to pass one another without tapping, patting, holding, kissing—especially when someone was hurt or sad or frightened. She’d watched their generosity like a vagrant looking for warmth.

But she didn’t know how to accept it. She didn’t know why Harry had done it. She had more trouble accepting that one gift of warmth than the worst beating Murther had ever given her.

Damn. Fresh tears. Striding over to her dressing table, she snatched up a handkerchief and swiped at her eyes. It was time to think of something else. Something she could understand. Something she could affect. After all, Harry would leave and take his hugs with him. She needed to find a way to go on alone. She needed to help bring the Lions to justice so Harry could go. Because if he had to wait, she might learn to rely on him, and as she knew all too well, that simply wouldn’t do.

S
he was standing at the window assessing every social acquaintance she had for a possible connection to the Lions, when she heard the door to the suite open behind her and Bivens’s distinctive footsteps tapping on the hardwood. The abigail didn’t even bother to quiet her approach for the assumed invalid. Kate smiled to herself. Bivens was on a mission.

Swinging into the room as if nothing was out of the ordinary, the abigail set out evening attire. “You going to swan around here all week, or can the maids get in and clean?”

Bivens was the only member of the staff who had worked under Murther. So she knew exactly how Kate dealt with injury.

Her gaze out on the rainy gardens, Kate smiled. “Swan, I think.”

The abigail huffed. “Don’t be daft. Lyin’ about looking interestin’ never worked for you. You know it makes you tetchy.” Bivens had to have seen that Kate had been crying.

“Bivens,” Kate admonished, glad her abigail had breached her fortress. “You know perfectly well that I am never tetchy. It is simply too common.”

“Besides, you’re scarin’ Lady Bea, and Thrasher won’t leave the top o’ the stairs, in case you slip again.”

She turned around. “I thought he was out hunting down Axman.”

The only answer was a shrug. “Water’s heating for a bath, here are your togs, and you’ll eat your dinner, or Miss Grace, Lady Bea, and me’ll shove it down you with a spoon the way Miss Grace says they feed those great, awful snakes she saw in India.”

“Charming image.”

“Your choice. I mixed a good headache powder for you, and there are cool cloths for your eyes,” Bivens continued, as if this were a daily routine, as once it had been.

“I’ll take a tray up here,” Kate said, stretching her stiff limbs.

“You’ll eat like a Christian at a table with your friends. Miss Grace needs some kindness after putting up with
your
guests this morning. She also wants to talk to you. Something about the man who poisoned her watching the house.”

That got Kate’s attention back out into the waning light. “What are you talking about?” She didn’t see anyone out there but George, leaning against the mews munching on what looked like an apple.

Bivens shook out Kate’s second-best petticoat. “I’m talking about none of us bein’ able to go outside for fear of bein’ murdered. House is crawlin’ with armed ex-soldiers, and some o’ the major’s friends are tearing up your library.”

Kate had the most disturbing image of books thrown in piles on the floor, their pages fluttering in a breeze, and her private correspondence tossed haphazardly around the house like confetti.

“And the major?” she asked, walking toward the hall door.

“Don’t know that, do I? He’s been in and out all day. He did leave ya something. In your boudoir. Said it’s a peace offerin’.”

Kate nodded absently. “I’ll look for it later.”

Bivens laughed. “Won’t take much lookin’ for. Trust me.”

Bivens knew just how to get Kate moving. She could rarely ignore a mystery. Slipping on her wrapper, she took a minute to peek out into the corridor. There was Thrasher tucked up against the far wall, arms crossed, expression fierce. “Do me a favor,” she said. “Go down and make sure those men aren’t destroying my books.”

He jumped to his feet. “But what if…”

“I’ll have Bivens help me down the stairs. I promise.”

That was all it took. Thrasher tore off down the stairs, and she limped into her boudoir. All was quiet. Gray afternoon light reflected from the psyche mirror, and a fire crackled merrily in the grate. But Kate barely noticed. Bivens had been right. Harry’s gift was impossible to miss.

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. What else was a girl to do when faced with a life-size portrait of herself smiling back at her without a stitch of clothing? Actually, she thought, tilting her head for a better view, she should be insulted. It was one thing to stick her head onto someone else’s body, but really. That woman had breasts like bread loaves, and the hips of a heifer. Kate looked down to reassure herself that her own breasts were far more attractive, firm and pale, with much larger nipples.

The true insult, however, was that whoever had commissioned this nonsense had obviously hired a second-rate painter. How anyone could have thought she would allow a rank amateur to immortalize her was beyond her.

“Should we hang it in the library?” she heard and turned to see Harry leaning against the doorway.

Her breath caught in her chest. Clad in tobacco brown and cream, with glossy riding boots, his wheat-colored hair wind-tousled and a riding crop in his hand, he looked the epitome of a Corinthian. Kate felt absurdly shy, as if he’d seen her naked. How could she bear to talk to him when she would always know that he had seen her at her worst? How could she trust him not to speak of it?

Kate felt the tension ease a bit when she saw the same uncertainty in Harry’s eyes. She felt something sweet wrap around her.

“Are you mad?” she retorted brightly, trying to ignore such an alien feeling. She tilted her head toward the painting. “That thing should be burned. I refuse to have anyone think I actually look like that.”

“I believe the point was made last night at McMurphy’s.”

“Did you rescue her, Harry? I’m grateful. I couldn’t bear having anyone think me so completely devoid of taste.”

Harry’s bark of laughter surprised her until she saw the mirth dancing in his eyes. And the direction of his gaze. It was only then she realized that Bivens had handed her the magenta, marabou-lined wrapper. Feathers shuddered from her throat to her toes and along her wrists. It was the robe she always wore when bruised up.

Drawing herself up to her full height, she shot Harry a haughty glare. “I’ll have you know that this is in the first stare of fashion,” she challenged. “I may be outrageous. But only in the best of taste.”

Harry’s smile was infectious. “Thank you for clarifying. I agree with you about the painting. Sadly we’ll have to wait until your brother is no longer a threat before disposing of it. This is Exhibit A in the case for his collusion.”

Kate huffed. “She can wait in the attic with all the other second-rate castoffs.”

Before she turned, though, she found herself considering all that naked skin. That naked, unmarked skin, which was the real joke. It was the only improvement on reality. Pointless, of course, but oh, she resented it.

“Did you find out how on earth it ended up at a gaming hell?”

“The painter, according to McMurphy. We’ve been unable to locate him.”

“Undoubtedly hiding from his critics. I’ll have Finney get this monstrosity moved. In the meantime, I believe it is time to dress.”

He straightened up. “How are you? Bea said you’d been abed all day.”

She looked up, afraid Harry would approach. She couldn’t have borne pity from him on top of everything else. “Perfectly fine. If I hadn’t spent at least a few hours looking sufficiently fragile, Bivens would have felt cheated. She never gets to fuss.”

“All right.”

He fell silent. Kate felt like fidgeting, which just wouldn’t do. She didn’t know how to deal with this new Harry. How did she go on when he no longer deserved her disdain? Lord, did that mean she’d have to apologize to him for those engagements?

“Well,” she said, feeling absurdly gauche. “I think I’d better be off.”

“Not yet,” Harry said, pushing away from the door. “You need to know about some decisions that have been made.”

Kate couldn’t help it. She stiffened. “Yes?”

“We’ll stay in town three days. Then we’re going to Drake’s hunting box, where you can be watched.”

She was already shaking her head. “No,
we
aren’t. You may go with my blessings, but I have to get back to Eastcourt.”

“We can’t be assured of your safety there.”

“Don’t be silly. My people would protect me with their lives.”

“One of your people tried to break your neck.”

She stiffened. “It wasn’t one of my people, and you know it. It’s been a very long time since I was fifteen, Harry. I do know what I’m doing.”

“If you did, you’d leave this to the experts. Don’t argue, Kate. I’m doing what’s best for you.”

She tilted her head. “Funny. That’s what my father said when he handed me to Murther.”

Kate saw his jaw working as he fought to control his temper and instinctively braced for impact. “I just want you to be safe,” he said, throwing her off balance yet again.

She almost apologized. “As do I, Harry. But I can’t simply ignore my duties.”

She was just turning around to go when he cleared his throat. “You should also know that I’ve forbidden locks on your door.” Kate spun around, ready to protest, but Harry forestalled her. “Just listen for once, damn it. It isn’t practical. If something happens in your room, I can’t take the time to break down your door.”

She couldn’t help casting a look at the door into his dressing room. “I’m still not quite certain how you came to be there.”

“I’m your husband. Besides, after the attacks on you, I felt that any other room was too far away.”

A perfectly reasonable explanation, yet Kate couldn’t help feeling a renewed resentment at how blithely he assumed control of her life. “I see.”

She tried to turn away again, but he caught her by the arm. She instinctively ducked away, hand up in defense. He immediately let go and stepped back.

“
Merde
,” she hissed, hot with distress. Turning away, she brushed down her skirts, as if that would calm her suddenly racing heart. “My apologies, Harry. I seem to have fallen back into habits I thought myself rid of years ago.”

She felt humiliated and angry and even more resentful. She loathed betraying any weakness, but in the space of a few days she’d fallen back into a defensive posture.

“You can’t be surprised that you’re a bit jumpy right now,” he said, hands in pockets, as if to reassure her that he wouldn’t importune her. “Any other woman would be having strong hysterics.”

She made it a point to look down her nose. “Don’t be silly. Hysterics are messy, self-indulgent, and ultimately pointless.”

Predictably, he smiled. “I want you to know,” he said, his expression suddenly hesitant. “Unless I suspect you to be in danger, I will never open this door without your permission. You’ll be the one to make that decision. Never me.”

She felt his words lodge in her chest, making it suddenly difficult to breathe. She blinked, certain she’d heard him wrong. “So if I never open the door it’s all right.”

His smile was thin. “I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say ‘all right.’ I’ll try to understand, though.”

Kate couldn’t look away from him, not knowing how to believe him. “Thank you, Harry. This is a first for me.”

“I was afraid of that.” Dipping his head a bit, he shared a slow, knowing grin. “I should warn you that I do reserve the right to try and change your mind.”

She blushed. “Why? You know that I don’t…”

Harry took her hand. “You’ll never know for sure unless you try.”

She felt her stomach clench. “I
will
understand that…” God, she couldn’t believe how callow she felt. “That you must inevitably find solace elsewhere.”

It took him a second to answer. “We’ll see what happens. But I think you should know that I’ve always thought that one day I’d want children, a marriage like my parents.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve decided to give the idea up.”

She truly didn’t know how to answer. His words incited panic, fear, envy, and, amazingly, longing. She wanted those things, too. But it was a dream she’d given up on long ago. She had no idea how to resurrect it. She pulled back her hand, as if it could protect her from wanting, but it just made her feel isolated.

“Well,” he said, as if they hadn’t just been speaking of plans. “I have an appointment at Horse Guards, then a meeting with some friends. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Since it is my At Home, I don’t see how you can avoid it.”

He nodded. “Keep Finney within reach.” Then, without a word, he kissed her.

She anticipated him this time. When he reached out for her, she let him. When he set his hand beneath her chin to tip up her face, she met his gaze. And when he kissed her, a brief, brushing caress of a kiss, she didn’t pull away. She never once betrayed the shivery, anxious feeling he left her with, or the way her heart raced. She certainly didn’t admit that she wouldn’t have minded another kiss. She wouldn’t have minded at all.

“See?” he said. “Not so bad.”

She scowled at him. “Survivable.”

He smiled. “Well, practice makes perfect. I’d be happy to oblige anytime.”

Kate was still feeling upended twenty minutes later. Bivens had just eased a peach-and-green tunic dress over her head when there was a quick tattoo on the suite door. Kate had no trouble identifying that sound, either.

“Come in, Thrasher!” she called, shaking out her skirts as Bivens tied up the tapes.

The door swung open and Thrasher trotted in, looking unusually serious.

“The blokes what tossed y’r library ’r eatin’, and a new shift is on. They brought this with ’em.” And with a flourish he’d evidently learned from Chuffy, the boy made a leg and handed over a folded note.

Kate accepted it with a smile. “You’ll make someone an excellent butler someday, Thrasher.”

The boy, already almost as tall as Kate, snorted. “’S if I would. I’m f’r coachin’.”

And before she could respond, he was gone again. Kate opened the note to see Drake’s signature.

Message received. We’re looking into it now. Apprise Lidge, pls.

For a second Kate stared at the words as if they were in code. Message?

Her stomach dropped. Oh, God. In everything that had happened, she’d completely forgotten about the errand she’d sent Mudge on the night before. Poor Lady Riordan.

Apprise Lidge
. Oh, no. Now that she thought about it, she was much happier to leave Lady Riordan with Drake. He wouldn’t care if Kate turned out to be mad as a mongoose. Kate wasn’t sure at all how Harry would react. 

She turned for the door and then stopped. She still felt too fragile to face him with this. It was bad enough that she felt desire curling through her like smoke, that her body glowed just being in the same room with him. But she found herself wanting to tuck into his arms again, to let him be her shield against pain. She didn’t want to marry him; she didn’t want to marry anyone. But she was beginning to grieve his going.