Her Beguiling Butler (11 page)

He growled with the glory of it, rode it and reveled in it. This one pure moment of pleasure was what he’d have with her. He could not foresee another.

Hating to leave her, he pulled his body from her and she cried out in objection. He curled her tightly to him, his lips in her hair. She deserved so much more than this coupling. And he had no right to declare all the emotion he felt for her. “Darling girl, I did not know I could want like this or care like this. Now I do and I am yours.”

She shivered in his embrace, looked up at him with tears in her eyes and kissed him in glee. In her afterglow, she pressed against him, her breasts and hips and soft female flesh all hot wet proof of how she adored him.

He petted her hair and stroked her perfect skin. She snuggled to him and with her artful hands, she stroked him to a fevered pitch.

He rose and discarded the letter. Climbing in beside her, he pulled her near and she came like a sweet siren, calling his name and rubbing against him.

He grew high and hard. She was eager and quick, sliding along his length, caressing his cock and driving him insane to have her once more.

He promised himself he’d demur and leave her at the last moment. Vowing to show her pleasure, he got lost in his own. She urged him on with sighs and moans, digging her nails into his shoulders, opening her thighs to let him drive with ease and speed. They rocked together, breathless and needy. She came apart in his arms, shuddering in delight. In a flash of sanity, he cried out and withdrew from her body to spill upon the sheets.

He drew her to him, his lips buried in her glorious hair. She murmured how she had wanted him inside her at the last.

“I know,” he said and kissed her crown. “I wanted that too. But this is best, my love.”

My love.

He had not thought to ever utter such a word to anyone.

And when she drifted off to sleep in the circle of his arms, he cursed himself for his predicament.

She had just made love with a man she thought was her butler. A man she trusted. To the core.

What was he to do?

He adored her. Beyond all reason. Over and above his duty to find the truth of how the people in her house had died.

Now he was in a right mess. He had to discern the facts of two people’s deaths—and he had to find a way to reveal to her who he was and how much he cared for her.

Could he do that without destroying her charming love for him?

He hugged her close, his fear leading him to kiss her pretty lips. He awakened her just enough to murmur words of love as he laved her nipples and ate her sweet flesh, then plunged inside her core to show her in the primal way that she belonged to him, body and soul. And he was nothing—not soldier, not detective, not viscount—no, nothing without her.

Alicia stood beside Wallace at the churchyard, the rector praising her dear Lucille.

The day had dawned crystal clear, the snow clouds chased away by blazing sun that reflected off the snow. No wind blew. The world, it seemed, was silent. As if—Alicia lifted her face to the warm sunlight—as if the world smiled this morning.

After last night, Alicia thought she would smile each day forevermore.

And here before her were the remains of the one woman who had taught her to grasp what happiness she could.

Even the rector spoke of that quality Lucille exhibited. The woman, though an advanced seventy-two years of age, had continued to inspire children in the township’s orphanage. With the annuity from her previous charges over the course of her lifetime, Lucille had managed to live a humble life in a decent little cottage on the main road to Sevenoaks.

Alicia looked out upon the numbers of little girls here, their heads bowed, some weeping, others fidgeting while the rector enumerated the deeds of this fine lady. Lucille had not only gone daily to read to the children at the orphanage, but had also taught many how to cook and to garden.

Alicia smiled, recalling Lucille’s instructions about the growth of flowers.

“Careful tending daily will profit you, Alicia,” she had said. “Pull the weeds. Give them no quarter.”

At once, she frowned, remembering her conversation with Wallace yesterday about the poisonous plants in her tiny garden behind her townhouse. She had lost interest in the small plot and left its care to the servants. Closing her eyes, she remembered looking out her window in the back of the house from her sitting room and seeing Mrs. Sweeting in that garden. If the cook knew the nightshade was there, why had she not pulled it immediately? Wouldn’t she realize that to leave it there was dangerous? What if any part of the plant, had blown into a collection of herb snippings meant for the table?

She stiffened at the horror of the possibility that poison might have mixed with their food.

Wallace reached over and hooked one finger around her own.

She smiled to herself at his discreet show of affection. Then she bit her lower lip in ripe remembrance of their mating last night. His lips on her throat, his hands on her breasts, his male organ filling her in white hot ecstasy had been beyond her girlish fantasies of romantic love. She swallowed with some difficulty as her nipples peaked and her belly swam with ardent need.
Dear me.
She was delighted she’d insisted on a carnal union. He was skilled in his ardor. And she? She was enraptured with this man.

Could she believe he loved her?

Of course, she could. Did. He had a noble mien, his care of her natural. Dare she say, spontaneous? Uncontrived.

She had not known any man like that. Oh, perhaps, a few existed, but she’d not heard of them. If they had wives who were the recipients of such instinctive amour, Alicia doubted the ladies would tell it abroad. They’d treasure it for themselves. After all, it was not usual for a man and woman to care for each other, not if they were married. And of those who did care for each other with any passion, they tended not to be bound to each other by vows or marriage laws.

Alicia sighed and cast a glance at Wallace. He was a man she could cherish all her life. And after last night, she had few doubts that he cared for her totally. He was not a man to lead her on a merry chase. He had objected often to their attraction. He was no fortune hunter or derelict. No rogue.

She smiled at that. No roué, though heaven knew, he made love to her as if he were.

She grinned.

He tickled her finger with his own.

She bit her lip. Not proper to look amused during a funeral.

She cleared her throat. He was indeed natural with her. Forthright. Honest. Save for this missing piece about his childhood with footmen, plural. Why did he hide it and why was he acting as a butler?

She needed those answers. She needed no more men who lied to her or manipulated her.

She sniffed. She’d learn that missing piece of his life. She’d solve that puzzle. And in the meantime, she’d convince him to love her again tonight. And for the coming months and years?

What would she do to convince him that two people who cared for each other as deeply as they did, deserved to remain together?

She frowned.

“Do come away,” Wallace whispered to her. “He is finished.”

Blinking, she saw that the service was done. The rector stepped up to her to thank her for attending, then he progressed to speak with other mourners. Alicia watched him stride up the path to his little church while two workmen stepped forward to lower Lucille’s casket into the cold earth.

Alicia murmured her farewells to the lady who believed that each day was one wherein joy must be captured.

“I’m ready.” She let Wallace take her arm and the two of them made their way along the snowy path back to a carriage he had hired for them.

Inside, she settled to the seat and girded herself for the challenge to convince him to stay with her…forever.

* * *

Alicia remained silent on the trip back to London. She did not seem to be brooding but pensive.

Looking at the passing countryside, covered in a blanket of snow, Finnley held her hand and gazed out the coach window. He himself had much to ponder. His night with her had proven to him how much he cared for her and how little control he had over himself when in her company. He loved her. Had for days, weeks in fact. She was a rare woman of kindness and unaffected charm, and she saw him for who he was without title, land or fortune.

His challenge was to quickly reveal his identity and claim her as his true self. But he had to remain aloof from her until he had discovered the cause of death of those two people in her house. Taking her to bed was joyous, dare he say, addictive. But he could not bear to deceive her in any small way, especially not about the nature of his person. His deception had never been to trick her but was based on his duty to the undersecretary. Discovering criminals had become in the past few months an old fascination.

In the past weeks, he contemplated a different life. A quiet one, a life with a wife. Serene and measured. He’d even accepted the fact that he might enjoy the countryside. His estates. His wife in a big broad bed naked to his lips and hands and… Well! Yes.
All of him.

Dusk fell as their traveling coach rumbled across the Thames toward Mayfair and Dudley Crescent.

“I leave you at Bond Street, my dear,” he told her and kissed her on the cheek. Then he knocked on the driver’s box to stop the coach. “Less than a mile to go for home. I will arrive at the house before seven o’clock.”

“We don’t want to appear to have been traveling together,” she said with a sad smile. “I understand.”

“I will walk about for an hour or more.” He’d try to catch Winston before he left his office for home. The news of the nightshade worried him and he had to tell him about it.

“If you must.”

“It’s necessary, sweetheart.” He touched her nose playfully, then turned to leave.

But she caught his wrist. “Come to me tonight.”

Her dark purple gaze pleaded with him and he fought every instinct to refuse. “I shouldn’t.”

“Do. I need you, Wallace.”

He kissed her hand. “The feeling is mutual.
Au revoir
.”

He climbed down from the carriage and stood, watching the conveyance round the corner and head for the Crescent.

With a hand to the air, he hailed the next hack. A sorry looking thing it was too. But he gave the driver the address and got in, bundling up against the chill of the night.

“What do you think?” he asked Winston after he’d told him about the growth of the plants in the back garden of Number Ten.

“Availability of it is one thing. Opportunity to use it, another. Motive is what we need, Beaumont.”

Finnley sighed. “I will become more friendly with the cook.”

“She’s the one who was most likely to use it,” Lord Winston said. “And by her discussion with Lady Ranford, she knew where it was. The symptoms of Lord Ranford’s condition speak of such poisoning.”

“And Norden’s death in December so soon after he came to us with his suspicions is odd,” Finnley added.

“Plus the speedy departure of the baron’s valet.” Winston pursed his lips and shifted in his chair. “Who found the bodies of Ranford and Norden?”

“I do not know. I will ask the cook.” Finnley shook his head. “A damned ugly business if indeed two people died at one person’s hand.”

“And to think, none of us would have even investigated except that Norden thought the baron had gone a bit mad at the end of his life. Raging headaches. Lost quite a few stone in weight, too.”

“Even that sounds like nightshade poisoning,” Finnley said. “Any news about the footman’s past? Grimes?”

Winston shook his head. “Sad to say, nothing. I had one of our men ask about at the Mayfair Registry office to no results. Then he went off to talk to a man who runs the annual servant mop in Chelsea, but he recalled no one of that name or description. Your Grimes
is a ghost in the machinery.”

“And the lady’s maid, Cybil Preston?”

“Now, there we have something.” Winston frowned. “My man learned of a woman by that last name who’s attended one of the servants training schools. Years ago this was. So it could be your maid.”

“And any word on her looks?”

“Dark hair. Brown eyes. Middling height. Pretty. Is your Preston?”

“A bit, yes. Has a pointed nose that destroys the symmetry, though. A hawk in maid’s clothing.”

Winston shrugged. “Can’t have perfection, eh?”

“True. Anything else about this Preston they talked of?”

“Only that she was a hard worker. Is yours that?”

Finnley nodded. “I’d say so, yes.”

“Seems this one claimed she came from quality. Said she was a by-blow of a lord who left her mother to fend for herself. Does yours claim anything like that?”

“Interesting.” Finnley pursed his lips. “I never asked.”

“Do.”

“I will.” He rose. “I say, would you mind if I change my clothes now?”

“As you did day before yesterday? No, of course not,” Winston was chuckling. “What the hell are you doing changing clothes for, Beaumont?”

“A little subterfuge. I was Lady Ranford’s companion for two days. And now I return to my former position. Playing at butler requires a bit of dressing down.”

“So I see. Well, have at it.” Winston pointed toward the far closet where Finnley had changed his clothes before he’d met Alicia for their journey to Sevenoaks.

“Thank you for this, Winston. I will investigate more and return. Soon, I do hope.”

“Best for you and for your Lady Ranford if you do.”

When he entered the servants’ door of Number Ten he found the staff at their supper. All were seated at the large rectangular table, at the head his own chair empty.

“Good evening. Please,” he said with a hand up, “no need to rise. Continue your meal. I will make my way to my room.”

“Will you be wanting your own supper, Mr. Finnley?” Sweeting asked as he walked toward the stairs.

“Yes, thank you. In a few minutes.”

“Her ladyship is home, sir,” Mrs. Gordon told him. “She asked for you, but I told her you were still out on your errand to your brother’s.”