His Sinful Secret (2 page)

Michael stepped past him. “Sorry to roust you out of bed, Lawrence.”

“No apology necessary. I assure you.”

Had it not been for the droplets of blood that dripped on the polished black-and-white marble of the foyer, they might have appeared to just be conversing in a polite exchange of pleasantries. But while they were colleagues, they were not precisely friends. “Is Lady Taylor . . . occupied?”

“All alone this evening, my lord.” There was a slight hint of irony in the tone of Lawrence’s voice, and he eyed Michael’s slashed coat.

“Very good.” At least he wouldn’t be intruding on a personal interlude. Antonia rarely mentioned her private entertainments and he didn’t ask. Michael suspected she and Lawrence shared a closer relationship than majordomo and mistress, but if so, it wasn’t his affair and neither of them had confided in him, which was all to the good. They were business associates—albeit with closer ties than most—but still Michael believed in keeping personal issues separate from his duties. “Perhaps you could let her know I’m here.”

“She’ll be delighted to receive you, I’m sure. She always is.”

Despite his wound and the disastrous implications, Michael had to lift a brow in amusement at the slightly insolent tone of the young man as he left. Lawrence hadn’t even blinked an eye over a bleeding man arriving in the middle of the night, nor had he asked questions about his wound. He wouldn’t, of course. He’d seen worse, and he knew how to keep his mouth firmly shut.

Yet the hint of antagonism spoke volumes.

Minutes later Antonia hovered over him, a silk wrapper framing her voluptuous body, her mouth set in a line of grim reproof. They were in her bedroom, though she’d set a blanket on the floor so he wouldn’t bleed on her expensive carpeting. Pale gold silken hangings framed a tester bed, and the windows were open to the back gardens. She’d dragged the gilded stool from her dressing table over on top of the protective blanket and fairly shoved Michael down to sit on it.

“I believe,” she said as she tugged his shirt from his breeches, ignoring his wince, “I told you to be careful.”

“My source said he had information on Roget so I took a chance and agreed to the meeting. Besides, I wasn’t attacked there. It happened as I was walking back to the hack, through not the finest neighborhood in London.”

“Does that surprise you? The finest people usually are not the ones who have firsthand knowledge of murderers and traitors.”

“True enough.”

“And the information . . . tell me, was it worth your blood?” The question was almost lethally soft.

“No.”

“I see.” She shrugged as she undid his buttons, but there was still a gleam of disappointment in her dark eyes. “A pity.”

He eyed the jagged cut with resignation as he leaned forward to help her slide his slashed shirt off his shoulders. The wound was nasty and at least six inches long, but with all the blood, he guessed it looked worse than it was. Painful but not life threatening, and he’d had worse. “I was careless. I wasn’t expecting an attack at that particular point. My supposed informant was long gone.”

“This is the second time. What if it had nothing to do with the meeting itself? You said yourself it was a dangerous place to be, especially at night.” Antonia dropped the bloody garment on the blanket.

“He didn’t attempt to rob me.”

“Because your reaction surprised him. Maybe he just wanted to kill you first so he could relieve you of your purse without trouble.”

Outside in the garden a night bird called in a low, melodic sound, incongruous to the grim conversation. Michael shook his head. “No, I think the two events are connected. The attack last week was much the same. No warning, just an ambush. I should have been expecting this. Usually my intuition is a bit more accurate. It’s telling me now to beware. I thought it had been inordinately quiet and wondered if our quarry had left the country again. Now I am not so sure.”

“Bah, we have lost him. Again.”

As she leaned forward and began to wipe the blood away, ebony hair spilled over the shapely shoulders of the woman inspecting his wound. She was Castilian by ancestry and it showed in her olive skin and striking features. Her cheekbones were aristocratic and high; her nose a shade too long, but the defect lent an unusual character to her face; and her mouth was generous and full lipped. The lush curves of her figure would lure a saint.

God knew Michael didn’t fit into that category.

Her robe gaped open a fraction and though he might be wounded and bleeding he wasn’t dead yet, so he couldn’t help but admire the firm, full curves of her naked breasts tipped with dusky nipples. Tempted? No, they’d ended that association several years ago. But he was still male and she was a very alluring woman. Without apology, he enjoyed looking.

“You’ll live,” she pronounced in a crisp tone, taking the cloth and wringing it out over a basin of warm water. She pressed it again to the spot where blood still welled from the parted skin. “It’s long but not horribly deep. I’ll have Lawrence go get a physician.”

“No, thank you.”

At the polite but firm refusal, she blew out an exasperated breath. “I knew you were going to balk. This needs stitched. Have you seen my embroidery? Trust me, you’d have yet another very interesting scar.”

“Just bind it up.”

The last thing he needed was word leaking out that the Marquess of Longhaven had been stabbed by a street thug. Attention was like poison. The less people who knew, the better.

Antonia put her hands on her hips. “
Miguel
, I—”

“Please, it is rather late for an argument.”

She hesitated a moment and then shook her head and theatrically threw up her hands. Her eyes were as dark as midnight and reflected surrender. “I would lose anyway. I’ve learned that from past experience. Fine. Have it your way, you stubborn man.”

Michael watched her disappear into her dressing room. She emerged a few moments later with what appeared to be a chemise made of fine linen. She proceeded to cut it into strips with a pair of small scissors. The idea of being bandaged with female undergarments would normally have been amusing, but his current predicament made it hard to laugh.

“As you said, I’ll live. I’d surmised that already, but this makes one devil of a problem for me.” He sat in quiet acceptance of her ministrations as she pressed a pad of the cloth over the cut, his moody gaze fixed on the marble fireplace across the room. “I am supposed to get married in two days. This is going to take some inventive tale to explain.”

Antonia glanced up, her mouth set in a thin line. She reached for a longer length of the fine white cloth. “You are really going to go through with it? I find it hard to believe.”

“The wedding? Why should you? The engagement has been formal for months now.”

“It isn’t you,
Miguel
.”

They’d had this conversation before. He sighed in resignation. “Whether it is or not, yes, I’m going through with it.”

“You’ll marry some insipid young chit right out of the schoolroom just because your father wishes it?”

“I would appreciate it if you did not refer to my future wife as insipid.”

It might have been his imagination, but it seemed she pressed the wound with a little more force than necessary as she began to wrap it. He gave a small grunt of pain.

“She’ll bore you to death.”

He lazily arched a brow. “I don’t think it’s her job to entertain me. I have plenty enough excitement in my life as it is, which might just include the fact that someone out there seems to want me dead. Let’s set aside my young bride for the moment, if you please, because we don’t agree on the subject anyway. Do you think the source of the attack could be internal?”

She wrapped the bandage around his naked torso, leaning so close he could smell the delicious scent of woman and a hint of attar of roses. Ebony hair brushed his cheek and her skillful fingers moved against his skin. “I am not certain,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “I think you are important to anyone who realizes what you are.”

What you are.
He wasn’t even sure what he was, other than an expert at subterfuge and deceit.

He mused aloud. “It could be something specific set this off.”

“Perhaps . . . the determination to catch Roget? Not that I disagree, as you know.”

He knew. “Perhaps.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not yet.” He rubbed his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “In light of this evening’s events, I’m contemplating the different variables before I settle on a theory.”

“You already have one. Don’t try to fool me.” Antonia finished, tying off the bandage with a small flourish. “The last attempt takes on a chilling significance, doesn’t it? If, as you theorize, they were both failed assassination attempts, there will probably be more until the job is done.”

“I’d prefer my death not be referred to as a job, my dear.”

She gave a small, inelegant snort. “Tell me how else to describe it.”

Blithely, he ignored the comment and went on. “Unfortunately, the first assailant didn’t survive the attack, or I might have had my answers right then and skipped this night’s enchanting little encounter.” It had been self-defense and Michael hadn’t even been the one to kill the man; on that occasion his coachman had seen the attack and produced a pistol at just the right moment. Or the wrong one, depending on your opinion. The elderly man had proved to have a very accurate aim.

Inconvenient, though it was expedient at the time. A shame, really. Wounded men tended to talk very readily. Dead ones were very disappointing in that regard.

“But since it has happened . . . what are you going to do?” Raven brows arched in concerned inquiry.

“He
was
set to kill.” Michael was grateful for that split-second glint of the moonlight on the steely blade that almost saved him. Had he not jumped the wrong way, he would be unscathed. The mistake was a problem, but better than a knife in the heart.

Still, how was he supposed to explain the injury on his wedding night? Even with the lights out and under the shroud of the blankets, she would feel the bandages. The wound might not be severe enough to disable him, thank God, but it could hardly be unwrapped in two short days without breaking open.

Well, hell. Life had a way of being complicated and this fit nicely in the slot. Bleeding all over his new wife would hardly be construed as romantic, and would, once again, require an excuse of some kind.

“I don’t suppose you have brandy?” It wasn’t so much for the pain as just to help clear his head. Michael moved restively in the chair.

Antonia smiled in a feline curve of her lips.“Of course. Contraband French brandy, though it goes against my principles to admit the bastards do anything well. I bought it from English smugglers, so that eases the pain a little.” With graceful precision she rose and moved across the room to wash the blood off her hands. There was a crystal decanter and glasses on a small table, and she poured them each a measure and turned, barefoot in her pale robe, as feminine as always with her dramatic beauty and that ever-present dark fire in her eyes.

“Thank you.” He accepted the glass. The heady fragrance filled his nose and he took a hearty sip. “I’ll also need a new shirt. Maybe Lawrence can spare one? With everyone in residence at Southbrook in anticipation of my nuptials, I can’t be assured of an anonymous arrival, no matter that it’s late. I’ll leave my jacket here, if you’ll dispose of it.”

“Whatever you need, I can take care of it.”

The husky, sensual promise wasn’t lost on him. Antonia was incredibly useful in some ways, but she wasn’t subtle. He said in a neutral tone, “And your loyalty and resourcefulness are appreciated.”

“But you still are intent on marrying your little ingenue?”

He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Indeed.”

 

“I delivered your precious package almost to his prestigious doorstep.”

Antonia glanced up from where she sat by the fireplace. “Your jealousy ill becomes you.”

Lawrence—if it was a surname or a given, she wasn’t sure, but it was all he offered of his mysterious past—stood with one broad shoulder propped against the doorjamb. The jagged scar that bisected his left eyebrow had missed the eye but continued across his cheek to the taut jawline. Despite the disfigurement he was still attractive, if you liked your males a little raw and rough, with a shock of dark, unruly hair and impressively wide shoulders.

Nothing like the more refined, classic good looks of the Marquess of Longhaven, but yes, dangerously attractive in an earthy, sinful way.

“At least I
have
emotions. I can’t say the same for him. He’s always been a cool one. I was surprised to see all the blood. You’d think he’d bleed icy water.”

“Not at all.” She could argue the point easily. There was nothing cold about Michael. He was all banked fire without a hint of smoke. The flickering blaze was there, however, ready to singe whoever came into contact with him if necessary.

He
always
did what was necessary. Michael was brilliant as a cut diamond, but also every bit as hard. The facets too were many.

“I take it he declined to stay the night.” Lawrence lifted his deformed brow.

“How do you know I asked?”

“There’s a certain disappointment in your eyes, my lady. Besides, with him, you always ask.”

“You are presumptuous.”

“And you, my lady, are misguided when it comes to the marquess,” he said softly.

“It isn’t your business.” She tried to sound haughty and indignant, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

For that matter, maybe it was more accurate to say not when
Lawrence
was the one questioning her about Michael. Through the course of the war, their arrival in England, and their alliance, it had all become somehow tangled together.