Shady Lady (9 page)

“Do you still suspect me of breaking into your office?”

“No!” There was no hesitation in her response. She added quickly, “A man like you would use other means to get the information he wanted!”

His voice was like silk. “A man like me?”

He was pressing her, and that made her more frank than wise. “You’re a . . . what I mean is, you have a way with women. Oh, you know what I mean!”

“That I’m a rake, in fact?”

“Well . . . yes.”

She watched in some apprehension as he set aside his cane. “What are you doing?” she asked warily.

“Proving a point.”

When his warm hands cupped her shoulders, she went rigid and raised her hand to shove him away. He would not budge. Emotions glittered behind the thick veil of his lashes—temper and, she thought, a curious irony. When his lips took hers, she was too startled to struggle. Eyes wide, she stared up at him.

He didn’t kiss a woman’s mouth, he made love to it, opening her lips with the gentle pressure of his, nibbling, using his tongue to separate and gently probe. It was sweetly erotic, then not so sweet as the kiss became wetter, hotter, more demanding. She leaned into him, just to get her balance. Her head was swimming.

His lips left hers and began to explore the hollow of her throat, her cheeks, her eyes. Cold reason tried to intrude, but her mind was dulled by fatigue. There was something here beyond her knowing, something she couldn’t control, or didn’t want to control.

She was suddenly set back on her heels. Shocked, befuddled by fatigue and arousal, she stared up at him. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing?” She massaged her throat in a vain effort to control her breathing.

He said calmly, “I’m living up to my wicked reputation. But you’ll notice, I know when to stop. Do you?”

When he picked up his cane and made for the door, she went after him. “Now, you listen to me, Waldo Bowman.” She could hardly contain her frustration. “You’ve got the wrong idea about me and I won’t have it. I’m not one of your light-skirts.”

He replied easily, “No, but I think you’d like to be.”

She was taken aback, then she was livid. “I’m a respectable widow. Do you think I’d take up with a rake? I have more respect for myself, yes, and more respect for my late husband.”

“Ah, the saintly John. I wondered when you would throw him in my teeth.”

He turned so quickly that she bumped into him, then she quickly retreated a step.

Laughter lurked in his eyes. “Didn’t he ever pounce on you and kiss you until you thought your heart would burst?”

“Yes,” she said sweetly, “but he had marriage on his mind. What do you have in mind, Mr. Bowman, mmm?”

His brows rose. “In the interests of self-preservation, I don’t think I should answer that question.” He turned and walked to the front door.

Seething, insulted, she went after him. “Just stay away from me. Do you understand? Just stay away.”

His hat and gloves were on the hall table. He picked them up and turned to face her. There was plenty of light to read his expression. His eyes were hard, giving the lie to the velvet in his voice.

“I understand you perfectly. That’s not important. More to the point, do you understand
me
? You’ve been released into my custody and I’ve posted a bond for your good conduct. Think of me as your guardian and yourself as my ward. Naturally, we’ll be seeing a great deal of each other, at least for the next little while.”

Jo’s fierce green eyes met his cool gray eyes in a wordless battle of wills.

“I didn’t set these terms,” he said mildly. “The magistrate did. If you don’t like them, I suggest you take it up with him.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“No, I thought not. One other thing. I may be gone for a day or two while I make inquiries about Eric. I trust you’ll do nothing in that short time to bring Magistrate Vine’s wrath down on our heads?”

She breathed through her teeth.

A flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Such control! But I’m not fooled, Jo Chesney. I’ve tasted your passion.”

She held the door for him. On the front step, he turned back to her. “But you kiss like a novice. Why is that?”

She shut the door in his face.

He struck out along Greek Street to Soho Square, where he found a hackney to take him home. It wasn’t far, but their progress was slowed by a plethora of vehicles coming and going to various houses along the route. The London Season was in full swing, when anyone who aspired to fashion or celebrity status was obliged to attend a series of balls, receptions, musicales, parties, and so on in order to be seen or talked about.

There was no escaping the Season. One had a duty to one’s parents and one’s unmarried sisters. Especially one’s unmarried sisters. By this time next week, he would be squiring his mother and sisters from one function to another. He wondered what his family would make of Jo Chesney. The question was irrelevant because his family would never meet her. It shouldn’t take long to settle the problem of what to do with Eric, then he and Jo Chesney need never meet again.

The kiss had been a mistake. She’d thrown out one of her irresistible challenges and, naturally, he had taken it up. They’d been throwing darts at each other from the moment they’d met. It was a game that he’d enjoyed. She looked down her nose at him because he was a rake, or so she supposed, and he held her up to ridicule because she was a prude.

All he’d wanted was to teach her a lesson. What he’d got was more genuine passion than he’d tasted in an age. It would be a long while before he forgot that kiss.

Nothing could come of it. No one could live up to her saintly husband. Besides, a woman like Jo Chesney wouldn’t settle for anything less than marriage. If he’d told her what was on his mind, she would probably have broken his nose—or worse.

His lips quirked.

His half smile faded when he remembered how she’d looked when he found her in Bow Street. That must not be allowed to happen again. He would be out of town for at least a day, maybe two. Surely, he could trust her to stay out of trouble until he returned?

There was something else—the business of the break-in at the
Journal
’s offices. She still hadn’t confided in him, still hadn’t told him the reason for this sudden trip to London.

It was inevitable that his next thought would be of Sergeant Harper, a battle-scarred veteran of the Spanish Campaign, now on leave from Special Branch because of injuries received on his last assignment. Sergeant Harper could turn his hand to anything. He blended in with the scenery. As a result, when there was someone to be watched or protected, his name always came to mind.

Sergeant Harper. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be the perfect solution.

She was sure that she would fall into bed and sleep for a hundred years. Instead, she tossed, she turned, and every few minutes, or so it seemed to her, she awakened with her heart thundering and her breath catching, as though a thunderbolt had just passed through her brain.

At one point, she got up, pulled on her dressing gown, and went to check on Eric. Their rooms adjoined, and she’d left the door open in case he needed help or cried out in the middle of the night. There was a candle burning on the mantel so that, if he wakened, he would know where he was. She tiptoed to the bed and looked down on the sleeping child.

Strands of fair hair fell across his brow. She resisted the urge to brush them back with her fingertips. He looked so small and innocent.
Angelic
wasn’t an exaggeration. It seemed beyond belief that anyone would wish to harm an innocent child.

If it hadn’t been for her aunt, Eric might still be locked up in that closet in Mr. Harding’s school. She liked to think that she was kindhearted and generous by nature, but in Eric’s case, she’d seen only a boy who’d been making a nuisance of himself—instead of a boy crying out for help.

How could she have been so blind?

Things were different now. He would soon know that she meant what she said. Whatever happened, she would not desert him.

After drawing the eiderdown over his thin shoulders, she tiptoed back to her own room and her own bed. Sleep still eluded her.

There were so many things to think about, and each weighed heavily on her mind. What was she going to do about Eric? What was she going to do about Chloë? And what was she going to do about Waldo Bowman?

She’d learned something about herself tonight that was highly unsettling. A man could appeal to her senses even when love didn’t enter into it. She knew that such things could happen—her own parents were proof of that—but she would never have believed it could happen to her. It seemed to her now that by surrendering to the kiss of a rake, she had defiled John’s memory.

Saintly
, Waldo had called John. She didn’t know where he got that idea, but it wasn’t from her. Like any man, John had had his share of weaknesses. He was hopeless with money, so he soon turned their household accounts over to her. He forgot birthdays and anniversaries, but he always made up for it. He was never punctual and was too easygoing for his own good. But in the things that really mattered, he was as solid as a rock.

One thing was certain. Women had never been John’s weakness, not like some men she could name.

She missed him, missed his calm good sense that could be counted on in any crisis. She missed his quiet humor and those evenings spent on long walks, or discussing books and their favorite authors, in front of the fire. But most of all, she missed the loving. . . .

Eyes closed, she tried to bring his face into focus. It wasn’t John’s likeness that came to her but Waldo’s.

She abruptly pulled the covers up to her nose and willed herself to sleep.

C
hapter
9

I
am not like my mother.
That was what came to Jo’s mind the instant she awakened, but she could not connect it to anything in particular, and as soon as she pushed back the covers, other thoughts battled for precedence—Chloë, Eric, and the humiliating prospect of having to defer to Waldo Bowman’s wishes as though he were her guardian.

She hurried through her ablutions and minutes later entered Eric’s bedchamber. Her aunt was there, with her mending basket. Eric was asleep.

Mrs. Daventry spoke in a soft undertone. “He was awake earlier and drank down two glasses of chocolate.”

“Is that good for him?”

“It won’t do him any harm, and I’m hoping when he wakens you’ll be able to tempt him to eat
real
food.”

“Me?” Jo looked at her aunt. “What can I do?”

“You’ve made a conquest there.” Mrs. Daventry chuckled. “All he can talk about is how you stood up to Mr. Harding. I must say, I was impressed too. I don’t think there’s anything Eric wouldn’t do to please you now.”

Jo looked down at the sleeping boy and felt her heart clench. He looked so small in that big bed, small and frail.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” she said softly, more to herself.

Mrs. Daventry cocked her head and studied Jo for a moment or two. Finally, she said, “With you and Mr. Bowman to champion him, I’m sure Eric will do very well. Which reminds me, he was here earlier—Mr. Bowman, I mean.”

“Here? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because he asked me not to.”

“What did he want?”

“I’d tell you if you’d let me catch my breath.” Mrs. Daventry paused, and when Jo pressed her lips together went on, “He said that he was leaving for Stratford to see Eric’s grandmother and confer with the vicar. All going well, he should be back tomorrow, at which time he’ll look in on us and tell us what he has found out. That’s what he told me. He told Eric that he was safe now and that he’d nothing to fear from Mr. Harding. He would make sure of it.”

“That was kind of him,” Jo said dutifully.

“I thought so.”

“Yes, but . . .” Jo sighed. “Can we believe him?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t mean well, but a man in his position . . .” Jo shrugged. “Oh, you know what I mean. He’s a celebrity. He’s in demand. One small boy and his problems are not likely to hold his thoughts for long.”

Mrs. Daventry considered for a moment, then shook her head. “No, dear. I’m sure you’re wrong. Mr. Bowman doesn’t strike me as banal or frivolous. When he says he’ll do something, he’ll do it.”

A ghost of a smile touched Jo’s lips. “I see. You’ve formed a favorable opinion of his character just because he once took you in to supper?”

“You have a short memory,” responded Mrs. Daventry. “Have you forgotten that only last night he rescued you from Bow Street? Don’t you remember how shocked he was when he saw poor Eric’s injuries? What I can’t understand is why you are so determined to mistrust his motives.”

Color flooded Jo’s cheeks. “I’m not. That is . . . we hardly know him. All I’m saying is we shouldn’t expect too much.”

“Then you won’t be disappointed?”

Jo gave a light laugh. “What
can
you mean by that remark?”

Mrs. Daventry’s attention returned to her mending. She took a few tiny stitches before replying. “You know what I mean, Jo. You compare every man you meet with John and, of course, no man can ever measure up to John.” She looked up at her niece with twinkling eyes. “I think if you give Mr. Bowman a chance, you might be surprised.”

“Give him a chance!” Jo gave a snort of derision. “Aunt, he’s a rake. He fights duels. He changes his lady loves as often as he changes his neckcloths.”

Her aunt went on in the same placid way. “Don’t confuse Mr. Bowman with your father. In his conduct to us, he has behaved like a perfect gentleman.” She cocked her head to the side, studying the slow blush of color in Jo’s cheeks. “So, that’s the way of it!” she declared.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Ah. Eric is wakening. Look who is here, Eric. Aunt Jo.” She set aside her mending and got up. “Boiled beef and egg custard, Jo. See if you can persuade him to eat.”

For a long moment, Jo stared at the doorway that her aunt had just disappeared through. At length, heaving a sigh, she brought her attention back to Eric. His big brown eyes were gazing up at her with complete and utter confidence. She was well aware that he regarded her as something between his own guardian angel and the warrior queen Boadicea. How could she live up to that?

“Eric,” she began with a patently false smile, and faltered. She felt like a woman who would use her wiles to get a man to go against his own principles just to do what she wanted.

“What?” His brows were down as though he knew what was coming and was disappointed in her.

She cleared her throat. “How would you like to earn a sixpence?”

There was something to be said for bribery and corruption, thought Jo. Eric ate every morsel and everyone was happy.

“It’s not,” Jo told her aunt, “that he doesn’t like boiled beef or egg custard. It’s just that he’s never had them.”

She’d spent a good half hour with him before he’d fallen asleep, trying to discover what his favorite foods were so that she wouldn’t have to bribe him to eat every meal. It was a pathetically small list.

“Bread, potatoes, cabbage soup, and porridge—that’s what they fed him at school.” Her voice held a bitter edge. “With sausage once a week and occasionally fish or a meat pie. No wonder he’s thin and pale. No wonder he doesn’t want to try new things. Do you know, Aunt, any boy who doesn’t eat everything that’s put in front of him is fed by force? The masters actually force it down their throats.” She ground her teeth together. “I wish I
had
broken Harding’s nose. What I can’t understand is why the law doesn’t do something. Schools like that shouldn’t be allowed to exist!”

“I don’t think the food at Harrow or Eton is much better,” Mrs. Daventry replied. “That’s why parents send parcels to their sons, you know, to add variety to their diet.”

“Is that what you did with Roger when he was at school?”

“Of course. And that’s why I suggested that we make up a parcel for Eric. He doesn’t have parents to look out for his interests.”

Jo’s voice trembled with indignation. “I wonder that parents can be so heartless as to send their sons to such places.”

“But boys want to go,” protested Mrs. Daventry. “And their fathers insist on it.”

“Well, Eric doesn’t want to go to school, and he doesn’t have a father.”

“No, Jo. Eric doesn’t want to go to Mr. Harding’s school, because of the beatings. Let’s wait and see what Mr. Bowman has to say. He won’t let any harm come to Eric.”

Jo stayed with Eric while her aunt went to church, but after lunch she left Eric in her aunt’s care and took a hackney to Chloë’s house. It was across the river, close to Lambeth Palace, and much grander than the house on Greek Street. Chloë’s late husband, Sir Ralph, had inherited his wealth. There was no entail, so when he died, everything passed to Chloë.

It sat in its own grounds, a three-story Georgian mansion with an extensive conservatory at the back. Most of the rooms were shut up and the furniture under Holland covers. The house was too big for one person, but Chloë couldn’t bear to part with it. It held too many happy memories, she said. She could close her eyes and sense Ralph’s presence. She couldn’t possibly sell the house and turn him over to strangers.

It sounded morbid, but Chloë was anything but morbid. In fact, she was a pleasure to be with. Her energy and love of life were infectious. She had, however, one major failing. She would go off by fits and starts without telling anyone what she was up to.

Jo had intended to pay this call as soon as she arrived in town, but that was before she’d become embroiled in Eric’s troubles. In fact, when she came up to town, she usually stayed with Chloë, not with her aunt.

She stopped the hackney at the gates to Webberley House, paid off the driver, and walked up the gravel drive to the front door. It was opened by the parlor maid. There were no manservants in Chloë’s employ, except Sykes—the old, decrepit gardener—and his helpers. A woman on her own, Chloë said, had to be doubly careful about provoking the wrong sort of gossip. It was acceptable to have one’s name linked with a blue blood, but not with a footman.

It was mostly talk. Chloë loved to shock people out of their complacency.

“Any word from Lady Webberley?” asked Jo as the maid helped her off with her coat.

“No, ma’am. We were hoping you might have news for us. Mrs. Paige is that worried, though she tries not to show it. She’ll be glad to hear you’ve arrived.”

Like the housekeeper, Jo tried to hide from the servants how worried she was. “Then I’d best speak to her right away.” She groped in her mind for the maid’s name. “Tell her I’ll be in the morning room, Libby.”

“Yes, mu’um.”

When Libby hesitated, Jo said, “What is it, Libby?”

“I don’t see your boxes.”

“My . . . oh, my valise? Well, I’m staying with my aunt on this visit.”

A look of disappointment crossed Libby’s face, and Jo hastened to add, “For the rest of the week anyway. Then we’ll see.”

The maid curtsied and hurried away. Jo let out a long breath and took a moment to absorb her surroundings. Light streamed in from a Venetian window on the half landing, adding a glow to the gracious interior. The walls and stair carpet were done in pale gray, a perfect background for the brilliant splashes of color from the crimson upholstered pieces and the hothouse flowers in a crystal vase on the round boulle table. Chloë had an unnerving eye for color. She could have been an artist or earned her living as a landscape gardener.

Flowers were one of Chloë’s passions. The conservatory was a wedding present from her husband and, Jo suspected, the main reason Chloë could not be parted from Webberley House. Her friend knew more about the care and propagation of her plants than the gardener did, which was not surprising. These were not ordinary, garden-variety English flowers. These were exotic specimens, transplanted from foreign shores—all the places, in fact, where Sir Ralph had served as a British diplomat.

There were flowers in the morning room as well, or rather, flowering plants in terra-cotta pots—creamy blooms on long, woody stems.
Orchis
or something like it is what Chloë called them. They were supposed to be priceless, because few people in England had them. Rare plants were more precious to Chloë than rubies or diamonds.

The morning room was the hub of the house. It served as a breakfast room, an office, and a snug little parlor. French doors gave onto the terrace, with its vista of immaculate lawns and profusion of flowering plants and, at the end of the property, the magnificent Gothic conservatory.

Jo walked to the French doors and opened them. It was a perfect spring day. The sun was warm, birds were chirping on their perches, and the air was fragrant with the mingled scents of daffodils, hyacinths, and flowers she could not name. It was so warm that the fires had not yet been lit, though that would change when the sun went down.

She had a flash of recall: Chloë, with scissors in hand, clipping the dead heads off flowers, waving her over to see something.

She shut the French doors with a snap and turned back to survey the room. If Chloë were here, it would have been overflowing with books, periodicals, and, of course, the latest copy of the
Journal
. Letters would have been strewn over the top of the rosewood escritoire, as well as invitations to various functions. Obviously, the maids had tidied everything away.

She couldn’t avoid it. She had to go through Chloë’s things, but she was reluctant to begin. It made her worst fears seem closer to coming true.

Chloë’s calendar of engagements was in the top drawer. Jo eagerly turned the pages till she came to the dates she wanted. There were only two entries: Lady Brinsley, Oxfordshire, and Jo, Stratford. If she’d kept to this itinerary, Chloë would have been in Stratford more than two weeks ago.

Jo sat back and let the thought turn in her mind. After Chloë had visited Lady Brinsley in Oxfordshire, had something else come up? An invitation that Chloë couldn’t resist? A new man in her life? In spite of Chloë’s expression of undying love for her late husband, she was attractive to men and attracted by them. Jo could not be sure, but from things Chloë had let slip, she’d wondered whether Chloë had taken the odd lover since she’d become a widow. Before she could prevent it, a picture of Waldo flitted into her mind. Chloë would have taken his kiss in stride, because it would have meant as little to her as it had to him. In fact, in some respects, she and Waldo were one of a kind, except that Chloë was mostly talk and Waldo lived up to his reputation.

Elbows on the escritoire, she rested her chin on her linked fingers, thinking of Chloë and how they’d come to be such close friends. It shouldn’t have happened. They were as different as night from day.

The
Journal
had brought them together. Having been raised in Stratford, Chloë became a faithful subscriber, and whenever there was an appeal for some deserving cause, she never failed to respond generously. But her letters were never simple. She asked questions and made comments on articles the paper carried that required a response, and John had given Jo the job of answering them. So began a delightful correspondence that ranged from the trivial (how to get a mustard stain out of white silk) to the serious (why Britain was at war with France).

John was surprised at their friendship, especially when he first met Chloë. He thought she must be something like Jo’s mother. She dressed to the nines; she was flirtatious; she was a beauty. But that’s as far as the resemblance went. Chloë’s mind was as sharp as a needle. She was interested in everyone and everything. Jo’s mother’s main occupation was to preserve her legendary allure.

A month after John’s death, Chloë turned up on Jo’s doorstep. She’d stayed for a week, cajoling and threatening, getting Jo to eat, forcing her to leave the house if only to go for a walk. As soon as she returned to London, however, Jo sank back into her lethargy. The next time Chloë came to see her, it was at Jo’s request, when the
Journal
was on the verge of bankruptcy. And it was because of Chloë that she’d found the confidence to take over John’s paper and make a success of it.