Once Upon a Wallflower (20 page)

As Mira spoke, Nicholas’s face turned to stone. When she finished her explanation, his mouth twisted up in a faint smile.

“You talk too much,” he said, his husky growl sending shivers down her spine. “I think we could put that luscious mouth of yours to better use.”

And with that, he drew her into a crushing embrace, his mouth coming down to consume hers. This kiss was unlike any they had shared before, more intense, more passionate, and with a subtle edge of desperation to it.

She melted beneath his onslaught, her body leaning into his of its own accord. As his hands twisted in her still-damp curls, she raised her own to his head, her fingers searching through the soft waves of hair and pulling them free of their queue.

When one of his hands drifted down the side of her face, the curve of her neck, to rest on the swell of her breast, Mira uttered a moaning little cry and surged forward, seeking more of his heat. More of his touch. More, more, more.

And when his hand on her breast moved, brushing over the sharp bud of her nipple, with only the fine wet fabric of her dress between his skin and hers, Mira thought she might die. A whirling dizziness overcame her, and she had to fight for breath.

Emboldened by the fire tearing through her, she let her own hands fall to Nicholas’s chest, and she explored the hard contours of the muscles beneath his shirt. She had never felt anything like his body, so hard yet gently yielding beneath her fingers. So warm and so alive. With a sudden flash of daring, Mira echoed Nicholas’s own caress, brushing her hand across the bulge of his chest, feeling the tight male nipple there.

He sucked air through his teeth and drew back with a sharp laugh. “Oh, Mira-mine,” he groaned, “such a clever, clever girl.”

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing deeply as his racing heart began to slow beneath her hand.

Mira struggled for composure. She had come here to discuss the murders, not to kiss Nicholas…no matter how delightful the kissing was. But he seemed determined to distract her from her mission. Did he not grasp the gravity of this situation?

Of course he did.

Suddenly it occurred to her that, when she had accused his father, he had not looked surprised. Panicked, angry even, but not surprised.

She gasped. “You have known all along, haven’t you?”

He groaned again, pulling away from her and slowly opening his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice utterly flat.

“You know what I mean. You have suspected your father all along, haven’t you? And,” she continued, as the picture became clearer, “you have allowed the rumors of your guilt to go unchecked to protect him.”

“Again, you are mistaken.”

But she knew she was not. His blank, controlled expression and the uncharacteristic coldness of his voice were all the proof she needed.

“Why? Why would you allow him to go unpunished if you thought he was guilty?” Mira nearly choked on the words. “Didn’t Bridget and Tegen and Olivia deserve better than that?”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes, and tension vibrated through every line of his body.

“Let us assume you are correct,” he said tightly. “What would I have done? Gone to the local constable with my concerns? Muttered ‘Christmas and Midsummer’ over and over until someone believed me?”

She flinched at the mocking tone of his voice, but found the courage to whisper, “You might have tried.”

He shook his head in incredulity. “Everyone suspected
me
. My accusations would have carried very little weight.”

Nicholas stood and turned his back to her, the rigid set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of his frustration. “Besides, there is no more proof of my father’s guilt than there is of mine,” he added. “What kind of son would I be to accuse my father of such a heinous crime, with so little evidence?”

Mira stood. She could not resist the urge to rest one hand on his shoulder, to maintain some contact no matter how fragile. “I know accusing him would seem disloyal. But you have a right to remove this cloud of suspicion hanging over you, Nicholas. And,” she added softly, “if he has done it before, he might do it again. Bringing him to justice might save a life.”

Beneath her fingers, his tension eased as his shoulders slid down in defeat.

“I know,” he sighed, and she heard the agony behind his words. “I am not so callous that I do not care about the lives of those young women. When Bridget died, I believed what everyone else believed, that she was killed by a traveling peddler, a gypsy, a tinker…some stranger who had passed through our hamlet. But with Tegen Quick, I began to suspect. Before she died, I caught them together—my father and Tegen—at the cottage at Dowerdu.”

Nicholas shook his head, eyes glazed with memory. “I never suspected that Miss Linworth was in danger. Not ever. If I had sensed that my father had an interest in her, I would have sought to protect her.”

His gaze sharpened, and he looked deep into Mira’s eyes, as though he were willing her to believe him. “I have tried to protect them, you know. The other young women. I have hired men—rather disreputable men, to be honest—to follow my father in London, to make sure that he does not hurt anyone there. And when my father is in residence at Blackwell, I follow him myself. I lurk about the hallways, watch the stables, making note of his every move. If he goes prowling for local girls, I am there, his shadow. I will not let him hurt another young woman.” He raised a hand to cup her cheek. “I will not let him hurt you.”

Mira thought of the form she had seen prowling the courtyard beneath her window that night. It had not been a dream, a figment of her imagination. It had been Nicholas. Guarding her. Protecting her.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his caress. Such a weight he carried, such responsibility. “Nicholas, you cannot watch him forever. And more is required: justice for Tegen and Bridget and Olivia.”

“Perhaps that is true,” he conceded. “But there is no question of justice of any sort unless there is proof you are right. Proof my father is guilty. I cannot have you bandying about accusations without proof. He is my father, after all.”

“Of course not. I will not accuse your father without proof. But neither will I sit idly by and plead ignorance. Tomorrow morning, I will begin to look for that proof, Nicholas. With or without you.”

Nicholas did not answer, and Mira sighed.

“For now,” she said, “I will leave you. I find I am exhausted. In the morning, I will go to Dowerdu. If we are right, then both Bridget and Tegen were meeting your father there and both were there, or going there, the nights they died. Perhaps we will find an answer at Dowerdu. Blackwell, Jeremy, Lord Marleston, and Uncle George are going to the next village over to inspect a brood mare, so the cottage will be empty.”

She moved past him and headed for the door, but she paused on the threshold.

“If you wish to join me, Nicholas, meet me in the library at nine o’clock.” She hesitated. “I would very much like that.”

With Nicholas’s silence ringing in her ears, Mira made her way back to her bedchamber. She understood why he was reluctant to prove his father was a killer. But she could not pretend ignorance. She had to uncover the truth.

She only hoped that the truth did not come too dear.

…

Nicholas poured himself another cup of gin.

Blue ruin. Nasty stuff. But it got a man drunk, and that’s what Nicholas craved.

He contemplated his unfinished portrait of Mira. He’d spent all morning trying to get the succulent curve of her arm just right.

Bloody hell, his Mira was driving him mad. Why could she not just leave well enough alone? Why did she have to be so bloody clever? So bloody obstinate?

Ah, but there was the rub. Her sharp, inquisitive mind, her passion and perseverance…the very qualities that made her such a nuisance were the qualities that attracted him.

He raised his glass in a silent toast to her image on the canvas. A toast to meddlesome, toothsome, troublesome redheads. A toast to his Mira-mine.

He looked about for a soft place to sit. Maybe lie down a bit before heading out to track his father. Spotting the sofa on which Mira had sat just hours before, he staggered across the room, the unevenness of his gait exaggerated by the liquor.

He had just sprawled across the sofa, closing his eyes and breathing deep—searching for a lingering trace of her scent in the soft cushions—when he heard the door open and someone enter the room. Whistling.

“Sweet merciful heaven, my lord, you look like hell. What has happened to you?”

Nicholas pried open one eye. Pawly stood across the room, staring at him in utter disgust.

“Your concern is touching,” Nicholas slurred. “But I should think that the root of my demise is apparent. Gin. Lots of it.”

Pawly huffed. “Not like you at all, my lord. Not at all. What has brought on this funk?”

“Not ‘what,’ my good man. ‘Who.’”

“Ah.” Pawly paused, a knowing smile touching his face. “And what particular aspect of Miss Fitzhenry is to blame for your mood?”

“Her clever mind, her damnable honor, just…just her,” Nicholas sputtered. He struggled to sit up on the sofa, losing his neckcloth and spilling a generous portion of gin down his shirt in the process. “She has decided that my father killed those girls. Killed Olivia. And that I have been protecting him.”

“Ah,” Pawly said again, this time nodding sagely.

“Indeed. And,” he added with an expansive sweep of his arm, the remaining gin in his glass sloshing wildly, “she wants me to go with her to Dowerdu in the morning. She thinks to find proof of my father’s guilt at the cottage. I told her I had the matter well in hand, but she will not let it go. Bloody hell.”

“Ah.” Pawly crossed the room to take the gin from Nicholas. Setting the glass by the bottle, he returned to help Nicholas out of his liquor-soaked shirt.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but perhaps you should give Miss Fitzhenry her head, let her discover what she will. This tricky business of protecting your father from the authorities while trying to protect the women of England from your father, it is taking its toll on you.”

“I am not protecting that randy old goat. I simply have no proof to offer the magistrate.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Nicholas loosed a low growl at the patronizing tone of Pawly’s voice. Did no one believe in his honor? Did they all believe him to be his father’s lapdog?

Nicholas leaned forward and began patting around on the floor, searching for…something. Neckcloth. Mustn’t go out without a neckcloth.

He surfaced with the crumpled scrap of linen in his hands and tried to wrap it around his neck. Somehow both ends kept appearing over the same shoulder. That would not work at all.

“Pawly, help me with this, would you?” Nicholas stumbled to his feet.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you cannot be thinking of going out tonight.”

“Of course. Someone has to keep watch.” Nicholas crossed his eyes to better focus on the uncooperative neckcloth.

“But, my lord, I don’t think you are in any condition to be traipsing about the countryside.” Pawly stepped closer, and, brushing Nicholas’s hands out of the way, took control of the wayward cravat.

“Nonsense,” Nicholas said, as he struggled to see what Pawly was doing. “Good show, Pawly. You have an excellent hand with the linen. But, nonsense!” he exclaimed again, returning to the issue of his outing. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Then at least let me accompany you,” Pawly coaxed. “You might need the extra hands.”

Curving his lips into a muzzy smile, Nicholas reached out and patted Pawly’s cheek. “I see through you, my man. You don’t think I can ride if Blackwell goes out tonight. But I assure you I am fine.” And, with that, Nicholas fell back on the sofa and the world went black.

When he opened his eyes again, Pawly was gone. The contrary cravat hung loose about Nicholas’s neck, and his boots were missing. The woolen blanket in which he had wrapped Mira now covered him.

Nicholas peered around the room, bleary-eyed, head filled with cotton wool. The ambient silvery light of dawn suffused the room, and he guessed it was maybe five o’clock.

He pushed the blanket aside and sat up, groaning in pain. His eyes felt like they were coated with sand. So did his tongue. More sleep would be good.

But he instead pulled on his boots and heaved himself to his feet.

Sleep would wait, but Blackwell would not. Nicholas had to find his father. He only prayed that his lapse of the night before had not cost some poor girl her life.

Chapter Fifteen

Mira paced before the fireplace in the library, occasionally glancing at the face of the ormolu mantle clock.

Twenty-six past nine.

Twenty-eight past nine.

Twenty-nine past nine.

Nicholas was not coming.

Mira sat on the edge of a ruby-velvet settee and leaned down to adjust her stocking. There was a definite wrinkle in the fine fabric, and, as she walked, the leather of her boots rubbed over it, abrading her ankle. It was a minor irritation, but she was not certain how long the walk to Dowerdu would take, and she did not want to have to limp home with an ugly blister on her foot.

“Ah, Miss Fitzhenry. Prowling the library again?”

Lady Beatrix’s voice, fine and brittle as porcelain, startled Mira, and she lost her balance and slid off the settee. She landed in a heap on the plush carpet, the skirts of her apple-green morning dress in a tangle around her knees.

“My dear,” Lady Beatrix breathed through a laugh, “are you quite all right?”

“Um, yes, my lady, indeed I am quite fine,” Mira stammered, struggling to right herself. As she endeavored to free her legs from their muslin bonds, she tried to explain away her clumsiness. “I did not hear you come in. I am afraid you startled me.”

“Of course, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix responded, her voice still trembling with amusement. “I fear I have always been silent as a cat. Perhaps I should wear a bell?”

Lady Beatrix glided across the carpet, her carriage so regal Mira felt lumpish just looking at her. Beatrix came to stand directly over Mira’s struggling form. With the settee to her back and Beatrix right in front of her, Mira was effectively trapped, having no room to maneuver so she could pull herself upright.