Breathless (17 page)

And she would do the same to him. Of her own accord, eventually. He had little doubt he could arouse her to such a fever pitch that she'd do absolutely anything if he gave her a slight nudge in that direction. He was going to enjoy this immensely.

He was, admittedly, concerned about Jacob Donnelly, Jane Pagett and the Carrimore diamonds. It would be a wise idea to get that solitaire off the girl's hand, and soon, before anyone else saw it and recognized it. Once it was removed from its setting and recut no one would ever know where it came from, but in the meantime she was wearing the equivalent of gunpowder on her hand. Jacob might find it amusing to play with fire. He himself was less entranced.

And who the hell did the man think he was, some damned romantic hero? It wasn't like Jacob to have slipped the bloody thing on her finger. He'd always been extremely hardheaded when it came to business.

He needed to make certain that Miss Pagett had been returned to the bosom of her family. Then and only then could Jacob arrange for one of his minions to steal it. He needed to make certain the Rohans hadn't begun a call to arms. He needed to take his time with Lady Miranda—the slower, more measured her downfall the greater pleasure it would accord him.

He would begin tonight, but by tomorrow he'd be gone, leaving her to rattle around this old place with Mrs. Humber. He had no doubt that by the time he returned she'd be at least a bit more cowed. Pawlfrey House was enough to pull the joy out of anyone.

He had his horse saddled, heading out into the misty afternoon, pleased that Miranda would once more be denied sunshine. She would learn to live like a mole. Her eyes would narrow as she peered through the gloom. Though that would be a shame, with such deliberately enchanting brown eyes.

He would come up with the coup de grace. He always did, when life was looking woefully tedious.

In the meantime, things were simple. Tonight he would begin the total ruination and subjugation of Lady Miranda Rohan. Tomorrow he would be gone.

J
ane wasn't quite sure why she'd ventured downstairs in the middle of the night in this deserted inn. To be sure, she'd been sleeping so much in the carriage that she was having trouble closing her eyes. But it was something more, some mystery that she wasn't sure she wanted to consider, and it had to do with their driver, the tall groom that dear Mrs. Grudge had warned her against.

She pulled a loose dress over her nightgown and crept down the staircase, loath to wake anyone, including her temporary companion. Her room at the inn was small, the bed was lumpy and if she couldn't sleep she'd rather be sitting in a chair. Anything to ease the ache at the small of her back.

The ground floor of the Cross and Crown Tavern consisted of the front room for the riffraff, a private salon for hire and the taproom. The fire had died out in both the salon and the large room, but she could see the warm glow from the taproom in the distance, and she headed toward it, drawn like a moth to the flame.

A wing chair had been drawn up to the blaze; the perfect spot. She headed straight for it and then stopped,
panicked. It was occupied. She saw the long legs first, propped on the fender, and she tried to back up, but she'd already managed to wake him, and he rose to his feet, still half asleep.

It was the groom. Without his cumbersome cap she could see his face and head quite clearly, and she could see why he wreaked havoc among all the women of the household. He was utterly, wickedly handsome, with guinea-gold hair, the bluest of eyes and a mouth made for sin.

His long, lean body, clad in de Malheur's dark livery, was just delightful. He loomed over her, and she thought she could see a peculiar light in his eyes. They were surprisingly merry as they surveyed her, from her loose, tousled hair to her feet, and she gasped as she realized just how improper this all was. She should turn and run back upstairs. But for the moment she was frozen.

“I'm so sorry,” she said nervously, trying to act as if she held conversations with strange men in the middle of the night all the time. When there was only one other time she could remember. Indeed, that she couldn't forget. “I didn't mean to wake you. I thought you'd be sleeping in the stables.” Oh, no, that sounded terrible, she thought. Like she thought he was one of the horses. But where did drivers sleep?

But he smiled down at her, that slow, lazy smile. “Aye, yer ladyship,” he said. “They said they had a bed for me, but like as not it's that cold, and the bed might have bugs or I'd need share it with another 'ostler, and I figger a chair in front of a good fire won't do no harm, and it'd be a right treat for me, after such a long, rainy drive.”

“That's true—you were out in this awful weather,” she
said, immediately feeling guilty. While they'd bowled along in relative comfort he'd been up on the box getting drenched. Her practical side came into play immediately. “You could have caught your death. Have your clothes dried properly? Sitting around in wet clothes is a certain way to catch pneumonia. I hope you had something warm to drink?”

His charming smile turned wicked. “Are you asking me to take off me clothes, yer ladyship? Because I'll gladly oblige, just to see if they're still wet, don't you know, though I'm not sure what I'll do while I wait…”

Jane stepped back, not bothering to keep the look of shock from her face. “Mrs. Grudge warned me that you weren't to be trusted.”

The groom didn't look the slightest bit chagrined. “Did she now?” He moved toward her, just a bit. “I didn't mean no harm, your ladyship. There's no need to get on yer high ropes about it. I was just having a wee bit of fun with you.”

There was something odd about the man, something strangely familiar. It was the kind of face a girl wouldn't forget, particularly a shy, romantic, love-starved girl about to settle for a stultifying marriage. She stared at him, her outrage fading slightly, turning to curiosity. “You didn't talk like that before.”

She could tell she'd startled him, and he fell back a pace, looking troubled. “Aw, my lady. I've lived a great many places and I talks like a lot of different people. Don't mean no harm by it, I don't.”

No, there was something definitely havey-cavey about this man, and her curiosity overwhelmed her good sense. “Do I know you? You seem familiar.”

It was only fleeting, the look of discomfiture in
his bright blue eyes, and then his expression changed, almost like one putting on a loo mask, and he leered at her. “I wouldn't forgets a pretty lady like you.”

She looked at him, anger stronger than her discomfiture. “You needn't bother, Jacobs,” she said, though her voice shook slightly. “Perhaps you think you're required to flatter your employers, or perhaps it simply comes naturally to you, but I know perfectly well that I'm not a pretty lady and never have been, so leave off, please.”

“You need a mirror.” His voice was different, without the wheedling, servile accent, and she looked at him with suspicion.

“Begging your pardon, your ladyship,” he continued, and the accent was back, part Yorkshire, part Irish, with a bit of cockney thrown in. He truly was the mongrel he'd said. “And what can I be doing for you this foine evening?”

On impulse she held out her hand, the one with the diamond. “Do you have any idea how do I get this off?”

He stared down at it for a long moment, but surprisingly there was no acquisitive gleam in his eye. “How should I know, miss? You might ask Mrs. Grudge.”

“I did. She was thinking axle grease. Since you're the driver you'd be the one to have access to such.”

“Lord love you, my lady, it's in the middle of the night and it's cold as a witch's tit out there, begging your pardon. I'll get you some in the morning before we leave. But why would you be wanting to get rid of a fine piece of the sparklies like that?”

“It's stolen,” she said nervously. “And my fiancé might have a problem with it.”

“Happen as he might,” he allowed. “You know, you
ought to be up in bed, my lady. We've a long day on the road tomorrow. And you shouldn't be down here alone with the likes of me.”

“I'm too stiff to sleep,” she confessed.

“So am I,” he said, looking oddly amused.

Poor man. It didn't matter how disreputable he was—he'd spent the day out in the pouring rain and she could hardly kick him out. She took a deep breath. “Well, then, Jacobs, why don't you bring me another chair and we can both stay down here?”

He didn't move, looking down at her.

Oh, God, that was a terrible idea, Jane thought belatedly, feeling the color flood her face. She knew better than to suggest such a thing. He was a womanizer and it sounded like she'd just issued an invitation for dalliance. “I mean…” she began nervously. “That is…”

He simply smiled down at her, and there was none of the leering aggression. “No worries, my lady. I knew what you meant. I was just about to find my own bed over the stable. I'll leave you in sole possession of this very fine chair and this very fine fire, and tomorrow I'll bring you the best axle grease to be had.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “That sounds like an excellent idea, Jacobs,” she said gratefully and she settled into his recently abandoned seat. It was still warm from his backside, and the whole thing felt completely improper, but she could hardly jump up again. She had to pretend she was entirely comfortable with this bizarre, midnight encounter. She'd been avoiding looking at him, keeping her eyes focused on his shoulder when necessary, but now she looked up, into his handsome, reckless face, into his blue, blue eyes and she
knew.

Impossible, she told herself. Absolutely impossible.
“G'night, yer ladyship,” he said, bobbing his head. And he backed out of the room, disappearing into the night.

 

Bloody hell, that was a close call, Jacob thought, heading out into the rainy night. When she'd said he sounded different he was certain she'd recognized him, that she was referring to the Carrimores' ball and the kiss in the dark.

But no, she hadn't meant that at all; she'd meant when he first took over driving. He'd slipped into a bit of Irish when he was flirting with her. It always happened that way. He'd better watch it—the Irish was just a little too close to his voice when he was rubbing up against her in the midst of a jewel robbery.

He should have left the moment she walked in the room. But she smelled like violets, and he couldn't let it be.

At least she didn't suspect him, he thought in relief, ignoring his irritation at her mention of her fiancé. He shouldn't have said he was
stiff.
But she, poor wee lamb, had no idea what he was talking about. What a randy, improper soul he was, particularly when she was around.

And she'd smiled at him. Bloody hell, he wished she wouldn't smile like that. It had been all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her again, the way he'd been dreaming of for the last week.

He still could see her in his chair, her slippered feet propped up on the brass fender. She had long legs, and he could just imagine them wrapped around him. He could see her ankles, and they were so beautiful he
wanted to sink to his knees and start working his way up from them with his mouth.

But instead he'd bowed his way out of the room and into the cold night rain.

And it was a damned good thing. He wouldn't be surprised if the rain hissed against his skin, he was that heated up.

Not for the likes of him. He needed to get her safely home, get the damned ring off her finger and then forget all about her while she went on with her life and married her worthy fiancé.

He just wasn't sure he could do it.

 

It was a bleak, rainy day at Pawlfrey House, and there was still no sign of Lucien. Miranda, after having survived a thoroughly depressing tour of the place, chose the tiny drawing room near the library. It was painted in drab colors that had once been soft pastels of some sort, and the furniture was delicate, indicating that at one point it must have been the ladies' parlor. She held her fine lawn handkerchief, one of a dozen monogrammed ones that had been provided, up to her face as she took an errant pillow and used it to brush several layers of dust off the desk and chair. She mended the nib of the brittle pen, found a bottle of ink that hadn't yet dried up and began her inventory.

Some of the rooms needed little more than a robust cleaning. Even some of the curtains could be saved once they'd survived a thorough beating to get the thick, choking dust out of them, and while most of the bedding was sadly moth-eaten and worm-chewed, there was enough in sturdy shape for the time being.

A number of the rooms hadn't fared so well. The
mold and damp had spread up the wall in several of the back bedrooms, necessitating a carpenter and the removal of some fine medieval paneling, and paint was peeling in several of the bedrooms, including Lucien's. There was broken furniture in almost every room that needed to be hauled away and either repaired or discarded, windows to be washed and reglazed, floors to be scrubbed. It would take an army of servants, possibly more than she'd already told Mrs. Humber to hire. Half a dozen men would be useful as well, for the heavier work.

Her captor didn't return for the midday meal. She told herself that was a relief, had a tray in her withdrawing room and continued with her lists.

She would start with her room. Get rid of those dusty curtains, which were drab and depressing. She would see if the local seamstress could come up with something suitable rather than order window hangings from London, which would take forever. She didn't like the idea of sleeping with curtainless windows—it would feel like blank eyes staring in at her while she slept.

Her fireplace needed to be cleaned and scrubbed, not to mention all the chimneys of the house, which had to number in the dozens. The rug was beginning to unravel, and sooner or later she'd catch her foot in it and go sprawling. There were any number of rugs throughout the place that were still in one piece that she could have cleaned and moved.

Her villain didn't return for dinner. Not that she minded, she told herself, stretching to ease the ache in her shoulders. She'd been cooped up too long, both in the carriage and now in the house. Tomorrow she would go for a good long hike, rain or no rain. She was no frail
flower likely to melt. Growing up with three brothers tended to make one sturdy.

Bridget had done what she could in the bedroom, beating some of the dust out of the curtains and opening the windows to receive it. She'd scrubbed the fireplace as well, and the room looked almost welcoming when she finally gave up and headed upstairs. It was after ten, the book she'd taken from the library had ceased to interest her and clearly her heartless rat of a seducer wasn't coming home at all.

Bridget had removed the bed curtains, and a lovely coolness lingered in the air from the open windows. She hummed beneath her breath as Bridget helped her out of her clothes and into her nightdress, to prove to herself and her maid that she wasn't the slightest bit nervous. He'd chosen to spend the night abroad—he could be blown away in the winds for all she cared.

She waited until Bridget left, then climbed out of bed and took the straight-backed chair, slipping it beneath the door handle. There was absolutely no need, of course. The door itself had a very efficient lock on it, and he'd shown no interest in her after that moment in the wayside inn. If his only desire to have…relations with her was out of revenge, he probably had to work up interest in the entire procedure. Which was a depressing proposition, but better for her in the long run. He might never get in the mood.

The rain stopped sometime after midnight. The sudden silence woke her, accompanied by a pop and hiss from her fire. She glanced out the uncurtained windows. The moon was peeping from behind fast-moving clouds, shining through the rivulets of rainwater on the
windows, and she lay in bed, unmoving, watching each little stream slither down the glass.