Never Resist Temptation (10 page)

T
racking down Mr. Chauncey Bellamy had been ridiculously easy. A casual inquiry in the kitchen revealed that the gentleman's London house lay a mere two doors down on Upper Brook Street from Storrington's. Without raising suspicion, Jacobin had managed to gather a fair amount of information about the habits of the Bellamys and their staff.

On the night of the dinner party she was putting the finishing touches to a sensational
mille-feuilles
tower, gleaned from Maître Carême's
Le Pâtissier Royal
, when the kitchen chatter revealed that the guests dining upstairs included the entire Bellamy family.

It seemed like fate. Jacobin decided to strike at once when she knew they were occupied for the evening.

She lost some time outwaiting the young Bellamy ladies in the sewing room, but even so, she calculated she would have at least two hours before the Bellamys went home. Surely there would be music, conversation, and even cards in the drawing room to occupy the company.

Once she reached the garden without detection, it was the work of a minute to pull herself up and over the wall into the garden of the empty house next door and to repeat the climb into the Bellamy property. Waiting crouched in the shrubbery, she shivered with cold, but her information had been correct. Before long the Bellamy's butler emerged to light up a cigar and take his evening stroll. As soon as the man reached the bottom of the garden, well away from the back door, Jacobin slipped from her hiding place and silently entered the house.

Her heart raced with fear but also with a mad exhilaration. She stood motionless in the passage, straining her ears for the sound of any human activity. All was quiet. As she'd expected, with the family out for the evening, all the servants had retired save the butler. She walked stealthily into the hall, then examined the ground-floor rooms, one by one.

She had no idea what she was looking for, or even if there was anything to find. Only the convenient proximity of the house had made her undertake anything so foolhardy. She forced herself to slow down, rather than rush through the house at random. Impulse having driven her this far, it was time to use her brain.

What might she find to prove a connection between Candover and Bellamy? A portrait, perhaps. But if there was a family connection, that would be simple to discover elsewhere. Something small and incriminating. Papers. A letter. She needed to find Chauncey Bellamy's desk.

The house was lit, though dimly, and she quickly discovered there was nothing resembling a desk in the dining room or morning room. She'd have to go upstairs. In one sense this was good. She'd be less likely to be heard by the butler once he reentered the house. In this weather she couldn't expect him to take a prolonged constitutional. She ascended the darkened staircase on tiptoe, cursing under her breath at a creak from one of the risers about halfway up.

A drawing room: nothing there. A music room: the Bellamys' taste was for plain and unadorned furnishing—nothing but a pianoforte, a harp, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs. Under other circumstances Jacobin might have found such barrenness dispiriting, but she could only be grateful that it made her search easier. Neither did the family appear to care much for literature; there were almost no books in the house. Good. In the novels she'd read, important papers were often secreted within the pages of books, and she wouldn't fancy searching a library of several thousand volumes.

One more door to open. She sent up a fervent prayer that Bellamy didn't conduct his business in his own rooms. If she had to go up to the bedroom floor, she'd be close to the servants' quarters and in danger of disturbing them.

She found treasure! Or rather a library. Not a very large library, thank God. There were perhaps a few hundred books in a glass-doored breakfront bookcase. A warm fire blazed in the hearth and a tray of drinks
stood on a side table. The seating was more inviting than she'd seen elsewhere in the house. She guessed this was the room used by the family when they were alone in the evening and had been prepared in case they wished to take refreshment after their evening engagement. And against one wall was a desk. Not a lady's escritoire but a substantial masculine desk.

In seconds she began opening drawers. The room was brightly illuminated, fortunately so since the windows gave onto the garden. The curtains looked thick, but any change in the lighting might attract the attention of the butler. She had no trouble reading thick wads of letters and bills. She skimmed through them rapidly, fighting feelings of guilt. She suppressed her scruples. If there was nothing relevant she would forget what she'd seen. If she found proof of Bellamy's culpability in Candover's attack, then he deserved to be spied on.

The papers confirmed Bellamy's reputation as a dull man. Most of the letters concerned the business of his estate and investments. Alas, nothing struck her as significant. Such personal correspondence as existed was from relatives, and concerned children, visits, and the state of the writers' health: the mundane stuff of daily life, so fascinating for those involved and so tedious to the outsider. The bills were unsurprising save perhaps in their modesty. Clearly Bellamy was not given to undue extravagance.

By the time she reached the bottom of the pile, the sense of optimism that had launched the evening's adventure had evaporated. What was she doing here, she
wondered, pawing through the banalities of a stranger's life? And with the deadening of hope came an appalled realization of her peril.

The consequences of being caught here were terrible. Even being found breaking into a gentleman's house could lead to imprisonment and transportation. Once the authorities discovered her identity, the hangman's noose threatened. She couldn't count on Storrington's continued protection if he got wind of this little escapade. Every impulse told her to get out at once.

But the house remained quiet and she steeled herself to remain and finish the job. She perspired under her wool coat, from the heat of the blazing fire and from fear. She shrugged out of the garment, then pulled a thick ledger from the last drawer.

The volume contained three or four years' worth of household and personal accounts. The script was neat and the letters commonly formed, save for oddly idiosyncratic curlicues on the descenders, as though the penman possessed some core of rebellion or artistry that emerged only in his handwriting. Her heart now thumping so hard she feared it would awaken the dead, Jacobin forced herself to apply logic to the final task. Candover and Bellamy had quarreled three months ago, so she would start by looking at entries around that date.

She found it immediately and could scarcely believe her luck. The sum leaped from the page for the simple reason that it was so much larger than any other.

Before she could digest the significance of the dis
covery and look further, she heard the front door open and the sound of voices in the hall. Hastily replacing the ledger and shutting the drawers, she snatched up her coat and dashed over to the window and behind the curtain, which luckily covered a narrow window seat.

Please don't let them come in here.

Her luck had run out. Footsteps ascended the stairs, and the voices came nearer.

“We'll take tea in the library.”

Jacobin shoved up the sash and scrambled out onto the window ledge. She could hear the library door open, and the voices became distinct.

“I think I'll drink a little sherry to warm me on this cold night. How about you, my dear?”

Nothing like the cold he'd feel once they came into the room and realized the window was open.

“I think you had enough to drink after dinner.” The peevish female response came from inside the library.

Clinging to the lintel with trembling fingers, Jacobin took a deep breath and moved one hand to the top of the sash. She managed to push it down. Silence. She'd escaped just in time.

But hardly to safety. She was perched on a six-inch-wide ledge a dozen feet from the ground, her face jammed against cold glass, holding on to frigid stone with the tips of her fingers. Added to that it was freezing cold. Her coat slipped from her arm into the garden below, and an icy breeze caught her midriff on one side. Gingerly she lowered a hand to pull down her shirt, which had come loose from the waistband of her breeches.

The shirt had caught in the side of the thoroughly closed window.

Oh God
, she begged fervently and with more sincerity than her prayers had possessed since childhood.
Get me out of here
.

She couldn't imagine how the deity would manage it.

 

Anthony strode along the narrow path to the end of the garden and turned when something caught his eye a couple of houses away. Someone was clinging to the stone architrave of an upper window. That was Bellamy's house, wasn't it? And seemingly in the act of being burgled. He meant to go indoors and order a servant to summon the watch, when something about the felon tugged at his mind. Even with her face to the wall he recognized the slim feminine figure in breeches and a white shirt that shone in the hazy moonlight.

It couldn't be. Even Jane Castle wouldn't be so insane.

How the hell was she going to get down from there without breaking every bone in her body?

In three seconds Anthony was scaling the garden wall.

“Jane,” he called softly, standing in the Bellamy garden just below her unstable perch. “Drop down and I'll catch you.”

“I'm stuck. My shirt's caught in the window.” The normally confident voice broke on a sob.

“It's all right,” he whispered soothingly. “I'll get you down.” He didn't know how, but he had to prevent her
from crying aloud and rousing the Bellamys. “How badly is it caught? Pull it gently. I'll catch you if you fall.”

It must have taken enormous courage for her to release one hand from her tenuous grasp on the lintel, but she did it. Anthony held his breath as she grasped the linen and gave it a firm tug. He sensed rather than heard her sigh of relief echo his own when the cloth came loose.

“Well done! Now, do you think you can grasp the top of the sash and hang from it? You should be low enough that I can grab your legs.”

She nodded, and one by one her hands followed his directions. Then—sensible girl—she knelt on the ledge before letting her body hang all the way down. The distance was less than he'd estimated, and with raised arms he grasped her waist. As soon as his hand touched bare flesh she shot upward out of his grip, lifting herself so that her chest was level with her hands on the sash.

'Struth, the woman was strong. He wasn't sure
he
could do that!

“Jane,” he hissed reprovingly. “This is no time for modesty.”

“Your hands are cold.”

“You'll just have to put up with it.” Nevertheless he breathed on them and rubbed them together—she was right, they were cold—before returning them to her waist. This time she didn't flinch.

“Now let go, I have you.”

It wasn't a flawless dismount, though it could have been worse. They both remained on their feet, but a lurch as she hit the ground knocked a stone pot he'd failed to notice on the dark ground. To Anthony's ears it cracked like a fifty-gun salute.

“Let's get out of here!” he murmured, snatching her hand.

Leaving the garden wasn't as easy as entering. The neighbors had a conveniently placed bench against the wall, but the Bellamy side offered nothing but ten feet of sheer brickwork. Anthony swung her up by the waist and she pulled herself up and over the other side. Lucky she had those muscles. He was glad to find, as he followed her, that his were in equally good condition.

They collapsed onto the bench in the deserted garden, panting with exertion and relief. Anthony had an absurd urge to laugh and found himself shaking like a madman, silent chuckles rocking his chest. He hadn't done anything so foolish, so exhilarating—so much fun—since the days of his misspent youth. Jane Castle was worth every penny of her outrageous salary in entertainment value alone.

Impulsively he swung an arm around her shoulders and found that she too was trembling with mirth. Registering on some level that their escape had gone unnoticed and all was quiet next door, he exhaled a huge belly laugh, and for a couple of minutes they clung to each other, cackling like a pair of deranged hens.

Another sensation invaded his consciousness. She wasn't wearing anything under her shirt.

His hand stroked a well-defined shoulder blade and tentatively crept lower and around her side, seeking her breast. She must surely be cold. That quivering wasn't all laughter. In a smooth move he hoisted her onto his lap, opened his coat, drew it around her, and held her tightly in his arms. Just for warmth, of course.

Her unbound breasts pressed against his waistcoat, and her heartbeat seemed to match his own. A faint scent of vanilla warmed the wintry redolence of decaying vegetation and frozen earth. She raised her head from his shoulder, but it was too dark to see her expression. Neither did he know who made the first move. Perhaps it was a simultaneous advance.

Her lips were soft and warm. Initially the kiss spoke of companionship and mutual appreciation. But not for long. She opened up to him, and he was lost in a sweet, shadowy retreat where only the two of them existed. A gentle tattoo pulsated in his chest. It felt like joy

Tentative at first, her response intensified into hunger for the feast. They kissed for who knew how long, and he was content with the fruit of her lips, the honeyed tongue, the rich confection of her mouth. Not that he wouldn't have taken more. His whole body tingled with knowledge of her nearness. But he made no gesture of increased intimacy. Jane Castle's kisses were enough, for now at least, to make him entirely happy.

It was she who changed things. Somehow she'd unbuttoned his silk brocade waistcoat so that the warmth of their bodies melded with only two layers of linen between them. The definition of her breasts against his
chest sent a sharp message of desire to his nether regions and awoke him from his blissful trance.