Ransomed Jewels (17 page)

The major took a long breath. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Why, to keep the Marquess of Halverston alive.”

“No!”

Claire didn’t realize she’d moved toward Roseneau, but she had.

Roseneau held up his hand.

“Don’t worry, my lady. As of right now, your brother is still alive.” Roseneau walked to Hunt’s desk and picked up the round marble paperweight. “How long he remains so depends on you.”

The muscles in the major’s arms knotted beneath her hand. “You’ll excuse me if I have trouble taking you at your word.” He leveled Roseneau an intimidating glare. “The Marquess of Huntingdon is dead because of your greed.”

“Let me assure you I was not responsible for the marquess’s death. Lord Huntingdon and I were, perhaps not close friends, but friendly adversaries nonetheless. I would never have wished him harm.”

Claire took a deep breath. “If not you, then—”

Roseneau shook his head. “I can only guess as to the killer’s identity. A game I’m afraid would put me in a great deal of unnecessary danger.”

Claire felt her nerves bristle. “Release my brother. He doesn’t know anything about the necklace.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. In fact I must insist you hand over both the necklace and the papers immediately.”

The major stepped forward. “You’re too late, Roseneau. The British authorities already have them.”

Claire saw Roseneau’s face pale and his hands clench around the paperweight.

“Giving them away was very foolish, Major. You had a chance to live before. Now you have none.”

The major stepped away from Claire, forcing Roseneau to turn to keep him in view. “Your future is not so very secure either, Roseneau. The Russian government cannot be happy that you stole such a precious treasure from them.”

Roseneau shrugged his shoulders. “Failure is the chance one must take in any encounter. As an army officer, you are well acquainted with the risks involved in a battle, Major.”

“But I have learned to choose my battles carefully. Why did you get involved in such a scheme?”

“Let’s just say I was given little choice. What is the term you English have? Skeletons in the closet? Well, suffice it to say I, too, have a skeleton or two. When a certain person offered me the opportunity to keep these skeletons safely locked away, I could not refuse.”

“And this person wanted the Russian jewels?”

“This person wants wealth, Major Bennett. Wealth means power, and some men cannot get enough of either. The whole world knew the Russian government was willing to empty their treasury to gain an advantage in the war. The problem was the Russians were in—how do you put it?—financial straits. They could not come up with the money, so they offered the jewels. There is always someone in the world willing to sell even their soul if the price is right.”

“And the necklace everyone is so concerned about?”

“Ah. The Queen’s Blood.” Roseneau lifted his lips in a noncommittal grin. “Let’s just say absconding with the necklace was an impulsive act on my part. One I didn’t think would have such negative repercussions.”

“And the papers? Why are you so desperate to get the papers back?”

Roseneau shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that. I’m not the one who wants them.”

The major laughed, and Claire held her breath, watching the look on Roseneau’s face turn deadlier.

“Am I correct,” the major said, filling the room with the same powerful intimidation she’d sensed in him from the beginning, “that the papers contain a clue as to the traitor’s identity?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Major. My part was only to act as courier. I’ve found it’s never wise to be too curious in deals of this kind. Now, about the papers—”

The major spun around and pinned Roseneau with a hostile glare. “It’s too late, Roseneau. The government already has them. There’s an army of men working to decode them right now.”

The fury on Roseneau’s face was obvious while the Frenchman held the major’s glare. Suddenly it changed. The look in Roseneau’s eyes changed to humor, and he smiled as if he was aware of a well-kept secret. “Do you know what I think? I think you are lying, Major. I don’t think you have either the necklace or the papers.”

Roseneau shifted the marble paperweight from one hand to the other, then carefully placed it back on the desk. “I think the Marquess of Huntingdon hid what he took from my safe and you and the marchioness cannot find it.” He laughed. “You are still searching. That is the reason you have not left the marchioness’s home. The reason there has been no hint of anyone at the Foreign Office working frantically to decode the messages. The reason no arrests have been made. That possibility was mentioned,” he said, stepping to the side of the desk, then turning back, “but of course I discounted it as impossible. Now, I’m not so sure. In fact, I think it more than probable.”

Claire’s blood roared in her head, and she watched as the two adversaries stared at each other, neither conceding on any point. The major was the first to break the silence.

“I think it’s time you left, Roseneau. When you talk to our traitor, tell him his days are numbered. It won’t be long before we discover his identity. Then we’ll know who was willing to sell out his country, and who murdered the Marquess of Huntingdon.”

As if to emphasize his point, the major stepped closer to Roseneau. “I can promise you, he’ll swing for his crimes. Because I’ll put the noose around his neck myself. And perhaps yours, too.
If
you’re still alive, that is. Now leave.”

Roseneau’s eyes narrowed. A vein bulged in his neck and if anything, he looked more threatening. “You have a day and a half to find the necklace and papers. The Russian emissary is scheduled to arrive on Thursday. If I don’t have the necklace in my possession by Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock, the Marquess of Halverston will die. You will find his body floating in the Thames.”

Claire couldn’t breathe. She took one gasp for air after another, but there didn’t seem to be enough air in the whole universe to help her.

The major took another step closer to Roseneau. “Get out,” he ordered, and Roseneau’s face turned a deeper shade of red.

“You’ll regret this, Bennett.”

“What I regret is that I didn’t realize what Lord Huntingdon had done before he was killed. He’d still be alive and you and the traitor would have already been hanged.”

“Time is running out,” Roseneau repeated, then stormed from the room.

“Watkins!” the major ordered after the front door closed on Roseneau. “Send someone for Lord Barnaby! I want him here, now!”

Watkins nodded, then rushed to issue an order to one of the footmen. The major walked to a side table against the wall, then over to where Claire had sunk down on the cushion of the nearest chair.

“Here. Drink this,” he said, half filling a glass with brandy.

Claire tilted her face and looked up at him. They only had a day and a half left.

He reached out and put the glass in her hand.

“Take a drink.”

Claire took the glass but didn’t drink any of it. “He’s going to kill Alex if we don’t hand over the necklace.”

Claire couldn’t stop trembling. Her hand shook so violently that some of the liquid spilled onto her skirt.

“Just take one swallow, Claire.”

“No!” she said, throwing the glass against the wall. “Didn’t you hear him?” She bolted to her feet. “He’s going to kill Alex unless we find the necklace!”

“No, he won’t. We’ll find him first.”

“How? You don’t know where he is!”

Claire knew she’d lost control. Knew fear clouded her mind. Knew she was taking her terror out on the major. She lifted her fist and brought it down against his chest, as if fighting him would somehow get Alex back. Would somehow make the nightmare she was living go away.

She raised her hand again, but he didn’t let her strike him. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. He held her close, enfolding her in his strength. And she leaned against him because this was the only place she felt safe.

The clock on the mantel quietly ticked away, counting down the precious minutes they had to find the necklace and papers. But still he held her, not moving, not talking. Only breathing big, deep breaths that lifted his chest. His chin rested atop her head, his hands moved in slow, relaxing circles, and his heart drummed with a pounding beat beneath her ear.

“We have to find him,” she said as tears streamed down her face and dampened the front of his shirt.

“I know.”

They both heard the commotion from the entry, but he didn’t move away from her. Nor did he let her out of his grasp when the door flew open and Barnaby burst into the room.

“What’s happened? Watkins said Roseneau just left.”

The major didn’t drop his arms from around her. He didn’t put any space between them. He only lifted his chin from the top of her head to look at Barnaby and said, “Where the hell have you been?”

Chapter 22

Sam waited hours for sleep to consume him. But it didn’t. His mind was a whirlwind of jumbled thoughts that ran together in confusion. Everything that had happened today had only added to his frustration. The meeting he’d had with McCormick early in the day played over and over.

But there was something else. Something that caused more questions to arise. It was the frequency with which Barnaby’s name came up during their discussion. Not once, but several times. And in regard to totally unrelated incidents. In Sam’s mind, there was no reason for his involvement except that he was Claire’s brother.

Then, there was the conversation Sam had with Barnaby Linscott after Roseneau left. The man knew details to which he shouldn’t have been privy. Just as he had answers for every question Sam asked. Answers an ordinary person shouldn’t have known.

Sam brushed his hands over his eyes and tried to empty his mind, but certain questions wouldn’t go away. Certain events seemed too coincidental. For example, why had Barnaby Linscott been in Paris the night of Roseneau’s ball? He was only a second son, even if his father had been a marquess. Surely that wasn’t enough to warrant an invitation to such an exclusive affair. Sam doubted he’d been on the original guest list. So who’d pulled strings to get him invited?

Next, Sam remembered the day Barnaby came back from visiting Hunt’s estates, from searching them. It was the first time they’d met, yet Linscott knew who he was before they were introduced. He said he remembered him from Roseneau’s ball. But why should he? Sam had been there as Hunt’s driver. What nobleman takes note of a driver?

And Sam remembered how elusive Lord Barnaby had been when Claire began introductions. He had the impression that Barnaby Linscott didn’t want Sam to realize he was Claire’s brother. What possible reason could there be for him to remain anonymous?

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. Every question raised another question. The more Sam remembered, the muddier the waters surrounding Barnaby Linscott turned. He wanted to laugh. Claire’s brother was nearly as good at elusion and subterfuge as her husband had been.

He remembered the night they’d attempted to free the Marquess of Halverston. How Barnaby Linscott’s actions had mirrored his own. As if they’d both been taught the technique by the same master.

Maybe that was the problem. Too many things about Linscott reminded him of Hunt.

Sam swiped his hand across his face in frustration. What did it all mean? He knew he could figure it out if he weren’t so damn tired. If he weren’t so worried about Claire and what would happen if they couldn’t save her brother.

He bolted to his feet and took one step forward, then stopped when he heard a door close downstairs. Sam listened to the muffled footsteps he heard moving somewhere below and reached out to pull the gun from the drawer in the table by his bed. He wrapped his fingers around the cool metal and walked across the room.

He didn’t light a candle, but opened the door to his room and stepped out into the hallway.

The house was dark except for a single light in the foyer that cast shadows on the wall. Sam made his way to the stairs and descended slowly so as not to alert whoever was there.

When he reached the bottom, he looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until his gaze stopped on the floor in front of Hunt’s study. There was a light beneath the door.

Sam’s first instinct was to surprise whoever was in there, but a tiny voice told him he already knew the intruder. He lowered the gun to his side and slowly opened the door.

Claire sat behind Hunt’s desk going through drawers that had already been searched over and over again. She leafed through stacks of papers, rereading them to make sure they weren’t the papers Roseneau wanted.

He stood in the doorway until she noticed him.

“Oh!” She clutched her hands to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“It’s not here.”

“I know.”

She slid the drawer shut and dropped her hands to her lap. “I don’t know where else to look.”

Sam stepped into the room, and she lifted her gaze. A frown appeared across her forehead and with eyes wide and grief-laden, she watched him come near her. Before he reached her, she stood, but kept the desk between them as if she were afraid to step out from behind the protection it offered.

He stopped. Even with Hunt’s desk as a barrier between them, he could smell the scented soap with which she’d bathed. The urge to hold her was almost more than he could bear.

As if she realized his thoughts, she took a step away from him, putting a measurable distance between them. Sam let her separate herself from him.

“You’re sure this is the only room Hunt came to when you returned from Roseneau’s?”

“Yes. He didn’t go anywhere else.”

He turned to look around the room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves spanned two entire walls on either side of the room, the expensive leather-bound books a tribute to Hunt’s intelligence and appreciation for literature. The books had all been opened to make sure there wasn’t a pocket secretly cut out in the inside to hide the necklace and papers.

The door to the room was on the wall opposite them. Two large paintings flanked the thick oak door on either side, but Sam had already searched each of them, going even so far as to remove the canvases to make sure nothing was hidden inside.

Behind them, wide double French doors leading to the terrace cut the wall in half. There was nothing else in the room except Hunt’s desk, two leather chairs, and a sofa. But they’d all been thoroughly searched.

If this was the only room he’d stayed after he returned from France, where the hell could he have hidden them?

Sam closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. When he opened them, Claire was standing in front of him. She was so different from the picture she’d presented each time he’d seen her with Hunt. Still as strong and self-reliant, yet fragile somehow. Suddenly he couldn’t imagine her with Hunt at all. “Why did you marry him?”

She lifted her chin just enough to focus her eyes on him, and Sam thought he noticed a hint of sadness.

“You mean, why did the Marquess of Huntingdon marry me?”

She turned, and Sam watched her move closer to the terrace doors. Each step exhibited that natural grace he remembered from the times he’d seen her before.

With barely a hint of emotion, she said, “Because neither of us was given a choice. My father considered a match with the revered Bridgemont heir the coup of the year. Hunt would be a duke someday, you know. And I would be a duchess. But that would be after Hunt’s father was dead.”

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

Claire nodded. “And he still controls everything and everyone with an iron fist. Just as he always did.” She paused. “Does that surprise you?”

“A little, I suppose. I can’t imagine anyone controlling Hunt.”

“His father did. Especially before we were married. From the money he allowed Hunt to spend on his lavish lifestyle and his mistress—yes, I knew about her,” she said with a smile, “—to the woman he would marry. His father chose me. Not Hunt. It was all rather flattering at the time. I was barely nineteen years old and selected to wed the rakish heir to the Bridgemont dynasty. Except the esteemed heir didn’t want me.”

Sam let her open the French doors and stand in the cool night air.

“Hunt was nearly thirty-four years old when we married,” Claire continued, “and according to his father, had not done his duty as the only heir. His father decided it was more than past time he married and set up his nursery. The Bridgemont line must be preserved, you know. And I was chosen to accomplish the deed.

“I can still remember the day Hunt was told we were betrothed. It happened in this very room,” she said, looking back over her shoulder, as if the events of that day were alive before her. “My father brought me with him to sign the marriage contract he and the duke had drawn up. I was to spend some time with my new betrothed so the two of us could get to know each other. Afterward, I realized Hunt knew nothing about the arrangement. Or about me. He exploded with the fury of a violent thunderstorm.

“They sent me from the room, of course. But I could hear him raging through the walls. I’m surprised all of London didn’t hear him. He was adamant in his refusal to marry me. He told both his father and mine he would marry when he was ready to marry, and choose the woman with whom he’d live the rest of his life himself. He had no intention of letting anyone else make that decision for him. And, to quote him, ‘It sure as hell wouldn’t be some simpering young chit just out of the schoolroom.’”

Sam watched her head tip back as she looked up into the nighttime sky. He wanted to go to her but didn’t. “Then what happened?”

“I’m not sure. The Duke of Bridgemont said something I couldn’t hear and there was nothing more. When they brought me back into the room, Hunt was gone. All that remained was the marriage contract with his bold signature. Three months later I was Hunt’s wife and the two of us lived happily ever after.”

Sam watched her take a big breath, as if she had to reach deep inside to ease some painful memories buried far inside her. But Sam couldn’t imagine what they could be. He was sure everything had turned out for the best. Hunt may have started his marriage resenting the woman his father had chosen for him, but surely it hadn’t ended up that way. How could it have with someone as magnificent as the woman standing in front of him? How could Hunt have lived with her for even a day without coming to love her? It would have been impossible. And it had been. Sam knew that from Hunt’s dying words. From his demand for Sam to protect her. From his admission that he’d loved her, his marchioness.

She took a step back into the room and closed the doors that led onto the terrace, then leaned her forehead against the cool glass. As if drawn to her, Sam walked up behind her until his body was pressed against hers. He stood there for several seconds, her back and hips nestled against him, then he reached around her from behind and locked his fingers at her waist.

He tightened his hold ever so slightly and after a brief hesitation, she leaned back against him.

The heat from her flesh set him ablaze. He lowered his head and nestled his face against the crook of her neck. And he kissed her beneath her ear.

She angled her head, exposing more of herself to him, then sighed softly when he rained gentle kisses up and down the graceful column of her neck. He kissed her again, her clean fragrance seeping into every inch of his body.

At first he thought she would stop him, but she didn’t. It was the most wondrous torture he’d ever endured. They stood there, their bodies touching for what seemed an eternity, until he knew it would be impossible to let her go.

He turned her in his arms and nestled her close to him. He wanted her to wrap her arms around him and hold him, and he thought she might. But something held her back. He wasn’t sure what it was until she tilted her head and looked into his eyes. He nearly staggered from the depth of emotion he saw.

If she understood the danger of their situation, she didn’t show it. Instead, she breathed a deep sigh and leaned into him to bury her face against his chest.

He wondered if she could hear his heart pound beneath her ear and knew it was impossible for her not to. Even though they were adversaries of sorts, every inch of him burned with a desire he couldn’t fight any longer. He placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted her face upward, and kissed her.

He was on fire, the connecting of their bodies igniting an inferno of desire that had smoldered from the moment he’d first seen her. He wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone before.

He deepened his kisses and opened his mouth atop hers, searching for that perfect mate he knew awaited him.

She hesitated for a moment, an obvious indication of her mixed emotions. He knew there were ghosts tormenting her. He was without a doubt the first man she’d kissed since Hunt had died. Such intimacy had to be difficult for her, and yet, it was more than that. He remembered her first kiss. It had seemed almost . . . virginal.

He deepened his kiss, tasting her, teasing her, devouring her. Her hands skimmed up his chest, then her arms wound around his neck. She held on to him as if she didn’t intend to let go. And yet, he was afraid she might.

“Don’t ask me to stop,” he whispered, kissing her again and again, molding her body to his because he needed to feel her against him.

“No,” he heard her whisper against his mouth. “I won’t.”

And he kissed her again.

She sagged against him as if her legs were too weak to hold her upright, and he moved his hands over her body. She was perfect to his touch; her waist narrow, her hips seductively curved. He cupped her breasts while still kissing her and swallowed her gasp when his thumbs brushed over first one hardened bud, then the other.

“Let me love you, Claire.”

He sensed her hesitation before she nodded as if she weren’t able to form the word
yes
.

Sam kissed her again, his hands worshipping her lithe body, his tongue delving deep into her honeyed cavern. Oh, how he wanted her. How he needed her. Like he’d never needed anyone before.

He led her across the room and opened the door. “Not here,” he said softly. “Upstairs.”

He’d not take her here. Not on a narrow sofa or on the hard floor. He’d make love to her in a bed, but it wouldn’t be in Hunt’s bed, or in hers. They’d make love in the room where he’d been sleeping. Where the memories would be all their own.

He led her up the stairs, stopping once or twice to kiss her thoroughly. When they reached his room, he opened the door and followed her in. He closed it behind them and took her into his arms. She went willingly, although Sam thought he noticed a hint of trepidation. He brought his mouth down on hers to take her fears away. There was a nervousness in her kisses he wanted to ease, a trembling he wanted to calm. He knew how much this night was costing her, how difficult it was after being Hunt’s wife.

With a hungry kiss, he vowed she would never regret what they were doing.