Seducing the Rake (Mad, Bad and Dangerous Heroes) (15 page)

Angry at the memory, Chessy scowled down at the desk’s secret drawer. There was the bronze lion, just as the note had said. When she twisted the animal’s tail, a hidden latch was freed and an inner compartment sprang open.

From inside she drew out a handful of rolled vellum sheets. She stared down blankly at column after column of ornate script.
Son of a turtle,
she could make nothing of it!

Frustration seized her. Perhaps they were written in some sort of code.

Another noise came from the settee. Quickly she stuffed the documents back into their hiding place, then twisted the lion’s tail to reseal the compartment.

Morland shifted and threw one arm over the edge of the settee.

And then she saw it. Beneath his arm, half concealed by the white linen of his sleeve, lay a silk-covered Chinese book.

Chessy’s breath caught. She stared at the hand-sewn fabric cover. Could this be the book that would buy her father’s freedom?

Silently she crept to the head of the settee. The binding was authentic. The silk was very fine. And the title?

She tried to make out the Chinese characters in the candlelight, but failed. Her heart pounding, she bent closer. Only inches away, Morland twisted in his sleep. Muttering, he rolled to his side, leaving a little more of the book revealed.

With trembling fingers Chessy tried to ease the volume free.

Only a few more inches…

At that moment the sleeping earl tossed out his arm, which swept across Chessy’s silk-clad breast.

She froze.

His strong fingers opened, cupping the soft curve he had discovered. A muscle flashed at his jaw. He drew a harsh breath.

Chessy stood rigid, her breath a hot, wild thing as Morland’s experienced fingers made a slow but thorough exploration of this virgin territory.

Heat leaped through her, but she did not pull away, afraid even to breathe for fear of waking him.

His hard fingers slid back and forth. The movement sent bright tongues of flame to each contact point. Chessy bit back a whimper as he found the taut bud that bloomed beneath his skillful caress.

Morland felt it too. With a groan he rolled the tight, pouting nub between his fingers.

Desire crackled between them, hot and sweet as a tropical night.

He twisted onto his side, mumbling. His arm rose.

Even then Chessy could not move. Somehow her knees had turned to sponge cake, and the melting sensation that began in her throat and ended in the unnamable place between her thighs didn’t bear thinking about.

She was just inching back toward the recessed windows when Morland gave a hoarse cry.

He clutched at his leg, tossing from side to side. His nails dug into the velvet cushions. “Get down over there, Simms! Snipers coming over the hill, man! Simms? Dear God—” His voice shook. “Give me a hand here, sergeant. Quickly, he’s hit! Hurry or he’ll—-No, they’re coming over! No bloody time. Tighten that line, sergeant. Move, man! Do it now, or it’ll be too late!”

Chessy listened in terrible silence, watching Morland toss in restless dreams. Pain filled her throat, and she had a wild urge to seize his hand and offer words of comfort, freeing him from his dark dreams.

But Chessy knew she could not allow Lord Morland to discover her here. All she could do was watch, cold with horror, while the earl tossed back and forth on the velvet settee, his mind hundreds of miles away, trapped amid the bleak, rocky passes of Portugal or Spain.

Could she ever understand what demons haunted him? And even if she could, what difference would it make? There was nothing between them now, nothing but a few golden memories followed by a vast black sea of regret.

What happened to you, Tony? What happened to both of us? And why can’t life ever work out the way it does in dreams?

Somewhere in the darkness a clock chimed four o’clock. With a soft sigh Chessy made for the corridor. Soon the servants would be rising, laying fires and fetching water. She could do no more here tonight.

Without warning the tall figure on the settee jerked upright. “Who’s there?” He dragged trembling fingers through his hair. “Whitby? Is that you?”

Chessy shrank back into the folds of the curtains, white-faced.

Morland gave a low, harsh laugh as he stared into the darkness. For long moments he did not move.

 “More ghosts,” he muttered. One hand slid down to massage his right knee, and Chessy saw him grimace as he worked his way slowly up the other side.

Then with a sigh the earl lifted his leg between his hands and awkwardly maneuvered it down until his boot was flat upon the floor. Clenching his fingers upon the arm of the settee, he pushed to his feet and began a slow, awkward walk across the room.

His right leg scraped the polished floor. Twice he had to reach out to support himself against the wall.

With every step, Chessy felt a pain gnaw deep into her heart. By the time Morland reached the door, her cheeks were wet with tears.

The knocking began on Chessy’s rear door the next morning promptly at the first stroke of eight.

Two servants stood at the back staircase, looking stiff and proper and extremely out of place. Even Swithin, who ushered them inside, pronounced them to be a vastly impressive pair of superior London domestics.

“But there must be some mistake,” Chessy told Swithin when he brought her the news. “I hired no new staff. You know as well as I that we cannot afford the extra expense.”

“No mistake, miss. Said as how they was to explain it to you direct.”

Chessy sighed. “Very well.”

When she opened the door to the little room off the front foyer, she halted, amazed.

The butler was impeccably clad and looked to be an utter martinet. The housekeeper was immaculate in black bombazine and crisp white linen. Chessy could only stare in confusion as the housekeeper ran a white-gloved finger along the dusty windowsill, then shook her head in disapproval.

“But there must be some mistake. I’m afraid I did not—”

The butler bowed. “There is no mistake, Miss Cameron. His lordship’s orders were quite explicit. Number twenty-seven Dorrington Street. Duration of service to be six weeks.” The butler’s iron-gray eyes fixed impersonally on a faded patch of wallpaper above Chessy’s right shoulder. “All wages are to be paid by his lordship, of course.”

Chessy felt a wave of hysteria snake through her. “His lordship?” she repeated faintly. “The earl?”

“Indeed. He has discovered that Morland House is adequately staffed without our presence. He thought you might find our services—er, useful.”

Chessy watched in amazement as the housekeeper summoned a groom from the rear yard. Out in the mews a parade of men in thick leather aprons began to convey a load of heavy crates toward the house.

“Oh, but I couldn’t! It would be quite out of the question for me to—”

Swithin bent low and whispered in her ear. “What’s all the argle-bargle fer, Miss Chessy? Don’t look this gift horse in the mouth, that’s what I’m advising.”

“But it’s not r
ight
,” Chessy said. “And I can never hope to repay him.”

“No need to fret yourself. You heard the man—paid fer all right and proper, they are. And we’re sorely short of help right now.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Besides, if this earl sees fit to send over several of his people to help out, who are you to cut up stiff? Knowing your father as he does, why, mebbe the man feels in a manner of a relative. Like an uncle, say.”

Chessy frowned in dismay as the windows were thrown open and a trio of crisp young women attacked the house, mops and brooms in hand, all under the militant eye of the housekeeper.

Uncle? Tony Morland?
Is that what he considered her, an awkward, gawky niece?

“You know how things stand. At the very least I must make my financial situation clear to him. And if he still persists in this outlandish generosity, I suppose I must accept it.”

Swithin smiled faintly as Chessy walked upstairs. He liked the earl, so he did. And the old servant had decided it was time Miss Chessy had someone taking care of
her
!

~ ~ ~

Less than a quarter of an hour later, a terse note reached Half Moon Street. The script was awkward and hastily written.

I am honored by your assistance, of course, but I cannot hope to pay the wages of such superior servants.

F.C.

Ten minutes later a liveried groom brought back an equally terse reply.

Chessy fingered the unopened note that Swithin had brought her while a liveried groom waited impassively.

Chessy gnawed her lip. “Perhaps you would—care for some refreshment? While I frame a reply, that is.” Only when the groom had gone below to the kitchen did she hand the unopened missive to Swithin. She gave a ragged, desperate laugh. “What an utter dunce I am! More letters to be read.” Then she sighed. “How would I manage without you, Swithin?”

“Damned fine is how you’d manage, Miss Chessy! I’ve not the slightest doubt of it.” The servant’s voice was gruff. “But there’s no reason that you can’t learn to read. After all, I did it.”

Chessy’s chin rose proudly. “No lectures, Swithin. Not now, please. We’ve been through this all before. The language is hopeless, and I’ll have to manage without it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed.” She hid her shame, which had weighed heavily on her for years. “Will you please read me the message?”

The servant’s brow creased and he smoothed the velum sheet and studied its elegant script. Haltingly, he began to read.

My dearest Miss Cameron,

The honor is all mine in your accepting this trifling gift. As for payment, if you would consent to receive me later this morning, then I shall be glad to discuss some manner of remuneration that will be acceptable to us both.

Yours, etc.

M.

Swithin looked up, his eyes narrowed. “Will you be wishing to send a reply, miss?”

For a moment Chessy’s violet eyes glistened with unshed tears. She stared down at the indecipherable script, with the lines of English letters that formed words she had never learned how to read. She could read Chinese verse eight centuries old and write lines of poetry in exquisite brushwork, but to Chessy these vowels and consonants might just as well have been arcane Egyptian pictographs.

It had all begun as she had drifted from one part of Asia to another with her ever-restless father. She had detested the stiff, disapproving governesses he engaged, preferring to spend her time in the dirt beside him, digging for antiquities.

Through the years she had learned everything there was to know about prehistoric arrowheads and primitive cutting tools—but nothing about reading or writing in English.

What her father’s restless, unstructured life had begun, pride now kept her from rectifying. Chessy feared she was too old to change.

She had tried a tutor only to suffer the humiliation of having the fellow tell her not to bother because the female mind was
incapable
of accomplishing such a task at her advanced age.

That had been her last attempt.

But what did it matter if she couldn’t read English? Soon her father would be free, and she would be on her way back to Macao. She would never visit this chill, fog-infested country again.

Chessy looked out the window. Across the street, a short man in a rumpled coat stood leaning against the fence of the neighboring house. He stared insolently up at her window and smiled.

He was not the
first
man to study her house over the last few weeks.

Forget it, my girl. It’s just nerves. A few weeks more, and this will be no more than a bad dream.

Chessy wished she could believe that.

She frowned and looked down to see the vellum sheet crumpled in her hand.