Fanning the Flame (5 page)

"I've informed my staff that my cousin Jane Winslow has arrived unexpectedly from the country. They're all quite loyal. And used to my somewhat unusual endeavors, whatever they might be. They won't pursue the subject."

"There is one last thing," she said as he reached the door.

"Which is . . .?"

"I need to know if you truly believe I am innocent of killing the earl."

He gave her a hard-edged smile. "For the present, let's just say my mind remains open. If you're innocent, there'll be a way to prove it. If you're not—" His eyes held a promise of retribution so dark she had to work to suppress a shiver. "But then, since you're telling me the truth, there is no need for concern."

So saying, he opened the door and strode off down the hall, leaving her alone.

Jillian sank down on the brocade sofa, Blackwood's handsome image still etched into her mind. There was something about him. Her heart beat faster the instant he appeared, and even with the ruthlessness stamped onto his features, he was the most attractive man she had ever met. And yet she didn't trust him. He was a member of the
ton,
another of the social elite who had shunned her from the moment of her arrival in London.

Why she was drawn to him she couldn't quite say and already she was indebted to him far more than she would like. It occurred to her that in accepting the earl's assistance, she might be in more danger than if she had been captured and carted off to prison.

Adam strode into the drawing room of the Queen Elizabeth suite on the top floor of the Albemarle Hotel.

The suite was large and airy, with windows looking down on a small green park. The drawing room had been done in peach and gold, with darker peach draperies at the windows, a theme carried into the huge gold and peach bedchamber at the end of the hall. Adam knew because he had been there before—a number of times, in fact, during his days in the army.

The suite was kept for the exclusive use of the Countess of Melburn, a very old friend. Well, not really
old,
Adam mentally corrected, imagining the lady's lush curves and softly curling long blond hair just as she walked into the drawing room. She had recently turned thirty, he recalled, being a few months younger than he was himself.

"Adam! I can scarcely believe it. It's wonderful to see you." Lavender silk brushed her ankles as she gracefully floated toward him, extending pale, slender hands.

Adam captured both of them and drew her toward him, bent to kiss each cheek. "You're looking lovely as always, Arabella."

She smiled, used to men's flattery. "Where have you been hiding? I haven't seen you in . . . what's it been . . . ? At least six months or more."

"I spent the winter at Blackwood Manor." His country estate south of London, on the coast not far from Seaford. "As you know, I prefer the open spaces. I only just returned to the city a few weeks ago."

"Well, I'm glad you finally found time to drop by. The Season is just begun and already I grow bored. As I said, it's a pleasure to see you." She tossed him an intimate glance, though they were no longer lovers. "It always was."

Adam didn't respond to the entendre. The last he had heard, Arabella Saunders, widowed some nearly eight years, was involved with the Duke of Kerns. As enticing as she looked in the lavender gown that showed, for this hour of the day, a bit too much of her magnificent bosom, he realized he was no longer interested in anything beyond the friendship they had developed over the years.

"I wish this was a social call," he said to her, "but actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me."

"Of course, Adam dear, you know you only have to ask."

"A cousin of mine arrived unexpectedly from the country . . . a bit of a family problem, from what I gather. At any rate, she left home with only the clothes she was wearing. I was hoping you might be able to lend her something until we can muddle things out and she can go home."

"A cousin, is it?"

He gave her an unreadable smile, neither denying nor confirming her assumption that his "cousin" might be anything more. Whatever she believed, one thing he could count on: Arabella wasn't a gossip. She wouldn't mention his visit or the loan of her clothes.

"As I said, I'll be happy to help. I have a wardrobe full of things I should love to get rid of. It will give me an excuse to purchase something new."

"She won't need much," he said as she floated off down the hall. "She won't be staying all that long."

"Still, a woman needs to be well-dressed," she called over her shoulder, then disappeared out of sight into the bedchamber.

She was gone longer than he expected, returning with a footman in tow, carrying a stack of boxes so high the slim blond man couldn't see over them.

"These should do quite nicely. She may alter them if she wishes. I won't need them returned."

Adam bent and again kissed her cheek. "You're a jewel, Arabella."

She gave him a lighthearted smile. "You'll be sure to tell His Grace that, won't you?" She tossed her head. "On second thought, I don't think that would be wise a'tall. William is becoming quite jealous. A good sign, don't you think?"

"A very good sign," Adam said. "I wish you well, Arabella."

"Good luck with your . . . cousin."

Ignoring another of Arabella's not so subtle innuendos, Adam motioned for the footman to follow, then preceded him out the door of the suite. He loaded the boxes into his waiting carriage, settled himself inside, and rapped on the top.

As the carriage lurched into motion, Adam eyed the stack of boxes on the seat across from him, so tall they almost touched the ceiling. He imagined Jillian Whitney in the low-cut gowns Arabella always wore, and a cool smile pulled at his lips. It was followed by a tug of heat low in his groin.

First things first, he reminded himself, shoving the image away. He had to know for certain that Jillian Whitney was innocent. Though seducing her would be infinitely appealing and was undoubtedly part of his motivation for helping her, he didn't favor sleeping with a woman who might be involved in a murder, no matter how tempting she was.

He needed to discover the truth about the shooting and to do that he needed to get some answers. Leaning back against the tufted red leather seat, Adam went over his plan.

Chapter Four

Jillian tugged at the neckline of the fashionable plum silk gown she had found among the clothing Lord Blackwood had brought her. The dresses were a bit too short, the cut of the narrow skirts a little roomier in the hips than she needed, but aside from that, they fit almost perfectly. It irritated her to think how well acquainted with a woman's body the earl must be to gauge her proportions with merely a glance.

She studied herself in the full-length mirror, tugging on the bodice again. With Lord Fenwick dead, she felt as if she ought to be gowned in black from neck to toes. Instead, though the garment was styled a
la mode, it was cut a little too low for day wear. If fact, there wasn't a gown in the lot that didn't reveal a little more of her cleavage than she would have liked.

Blackwood's
friend,
Jillian noted with no little annoyance, was obviously the sort she had imagined. Though it bothered her to wear his mistress' cast-off clothes—right down to chemise, silk stockings, and frilly blue satin garters—the notion of putting her dirty, bloodstained dress back on was far more repugnant.

Struggling to do up the last of the buttons without the help of a lady's maid, wishing she had a fichu to stuff into the bodice, and cursing the earl for his taste in women, Jillian descended the stairs, on her way to a meeting with his lordship to discuss her situation.

The door to the study was open when she got there. Seated behind a gleaming mahogany desk, the earl looked up from the stack of paperwork he had been perusing. Dark blue eyes surveyed the auburn curls swept up on her head, moved slowly down her plum silk gown. They lingered a moment on the swell of her breasts above the bodice of the too-low gown and Jillian found it hard to breathe.

His gaze moved lower, down to the toes of her brown kid slippers, the shoes she had been wearing last night.

"The matching slippers were too small," she said defensively. "Aside from that, everything fit very well." She cast him a disapproving glance. "Your
friend,
however, seemed to have a need to display her bosom. Perhaps the next time you are out, you might buy me a bit of lace or something."

Blackwood actually smiled. "I don't think so. You do the gown justice. And I like looking at you exactly as you are."

She flushed. She couldn't help it. He was studying her boldly and with obvious approval, and though she should have been angry, beneath the bodice of the gown, her nipples tightened, then went embarrassingly hard. Jillian felt a rush of heat to her cheeks and prayed he wouldn't notice.

She thought that he did, for an instant later, his usually guarded expression slid away. In the depths of those fierce dark eyes, something molten surfaced. It lingered only a heartbeat, then the shuttered look returned and his control settled firmly back in place.

Jillian ignored the weakness in her knees that sultry look had caused. She couldn't possibly be attracted to him—surely not. The man was cold and callous, and though he was helping her, she didn't trust his motives. Still, she was a normal, healthy woman and he was an extremely handsome man.

She moistened lips that felt drier than they had when she'd first walked into the study. "You said you wished to see me."

"Yes . . ." He rounded the desk and strode toward her. "There's a chill in the air. Have a seat in front of the fire and I'll have Reggie bring us tea."

"Reggie? That is your butler?"

"That's right. He served with me in the army."

"Tea sounds lovely. Thank you." Though she hardly noticed the chill. In fact, every time the earl's dark eyes drifted over her, she felt oddly warm. Still, as he tugged on the bell pull, she made her way over to the brown leather sofa in front of the hearth where a fire burned brightly. Flames in orange and gold licked the grate, spreading heat out into the study.

Jillian wandered toward the fire, trying not to be self-conscious in the dress. Her steps slowed as she noticed a gilt-framed piece of ancient Egyptian papyrus on the wall above the sideboard.

"That's a very nice piece," she said, her gaze on the ancient drawing of a man in profile wearing a headdress adorned with a serpent on the front. He was holding a hooked scepter and surrounded by boldly painted hieroglyphics. "Twentieth Dynasty, perhaps, somewhere around that time, I would say. Ramses III, if memory serves."

The look on his face was priceless. "I didn't realize you were a student of Egyptian history."

The smile she gave him was infinitely smug. "It's a fascinating period. But actually it was my father's passion, not mine. He was something of an expert on the subject. I learned a good deal from him, spending as much time with him as I did."

"God's blood—you're Giles Whitney's daughter. I never would have put the two of you together."

She turned, looked up at him. "You knew my father?"

"I knew
of him.
We never met. I've read a number of his papers. As you say, he was a respected authority on Egypt." He crossed the room and picked up a statue of a bird carved of dark gray stone. Between its claws stood the tiny figure of a man. "Do you recognize this?"

She nodded. "Horus Falcon." She walked closer, took the heavy statue from his hands. It felt smooth and cool, and there wasn't the least imperfection in the stone. She imagined it had been found in a tomb, where it had been well protected. "The man sheltered by the bird is probably Nectanebo II."

He cast her an assessing glance. "Probably. We think it's Thirtieth Dynasty. Somewhere around 300 B.C."

She studied him from beneath her lashes as she set the statue down on the table. "You were there, weren't you? In Egypt. That's where you first got your interest in the subject."

His expression hardened. "I was there." But he added nothing more and an uncomfortable silence began to stretch between them.

At the butler's knock at the door, Blackwood seemed to collect himself. He walked over and pulled open the door, admitting the least likely butler she could imagine. "Reggie" was short and squat and looked a little like a bulldog, his nose smashed down as if it had been broken more than once.

"Wot can I get ye, Major?"

"Tea for Miss . . . Winslow and myself, if you wouldn't mind, Reggie."

"Right away, sir." He ducked back out and closed the door.

"Major? That was your rank in the cavalry?"

"Actually I declined a promotion to colonel when I decided to leave."

"I don't imagine you were sorry."

He paced over to the fire, held his hands toward the flames to warm them. "It might be hard to understand, but in some ways I
was
sorry to give it up. I liked the camaraderie. I liked the travel and living out of doors. As a matter of fact, that's the reason I was in front of Fenwick's house the night he was shot. I walk most every evening. It helps me get to sleep."