The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (31 page)

She could not bear the thought.

The servants at Lucy’s mansion knew Diana well enough to admit her without hesitation.

“Is Lady Pembroke in?” she asked.

“She is, madam,” Lucy’s butler said. “She is taking the air in the garden. Shall I escort you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” If, as she feared, she was going to burst into tears the moment she saw her friend, she would prefer to do so unobserved.

“As you wish.” The butler bowed her towards the French doors overlooking Lucy’s grounds.

Diana stepped out and took a deep breath of the late-spring air. Lucy would know what to do. A woman of her experience surely knew all about broken hearts.

Rounding the yew hedge, Diana heard voices. Lucy’s. And a man’s, painfully familiar. Sudden fear knifing through her, she crept forwards.

“Damn it, Lucy, I have to tell her.” Nicholas’ voice was strained. “It’s gone too far. She deserves to know the truth.”

“She’s not ready.” Lucy sounded resolute. “Think up some excuse — tell her you were unavoidably detained. But don’t tell her what you and I have been up to.”

Ice swept over Diana, comprehension settling cold and dreadful against her bones. Lucy’s talk of handsome piano tutors. Nicholas, here in her garden, using Lucy’s given name so intimately. His presence at the musicale last night, his familiarity with Lucy’s house …

Anger flared through her. The scoundrel! To use her so, when all along he had been Lucy’s lover. What a contemptible rake, to seduce her — here of all places.

She swept out from behind the hedge. “Unavoidably detained?” She raked her gaze over Nicholas. His eyes widened and he took a step towards her.

Lucy grabbed at his arm. “Diana. We were just speaking of you—”

“Yes,” she said. The word was coated in frost. “And what exactly were the two of you doing while my
employee
was supposed to be giving a piano lesson?”

Nicholas shook himself free of Lucy’s grasp. “Let me explain—”

“You should have explained before the musicale.” Her voice caught, snagged on memory. “But it seemed you had
other
priorities. Perhaps you had forgotten you had a music lesson to teach while you were ‘unavoidably detained’. You’ve behaved most unprofessionally, sir.” She fought to speak against the tightness in her throat. Nicholas reached for her and she pulled away. “I no longer need your services, Mr Jameson. You
are fired.”

Hot tears blurring her vision, she turned and ran. Dimly she heard Nicholas calling after her, Lucy remonstrating, but she did not pause. She rushed back to her carriage and flung herself inside, slamming the door before the footman could even approach.

It was far worse than she had suspected. And still a part of her had wanted to stay, to listen to his pleas. She was so unbearably weak. As the wheels rattled over the cobblestones, she dropped her head into her hands and abandoned herself to grief.

“Mama?” Samantha pushed open the parlour door. “Are you ill? I had cook make you some chocolate.”

She entered the room, carefully balancing a tray holding the silver chocolate pot and two cups. Diana mustered a smile for her stepdaughter and hoped her eyes were not too red from weeping.

“Thank you, dear. I am not unwell, just a bit tired.” Did heartsickness count as an illness? She did not think so. “Come, sit by me.” She patted the settee.

Samantha set the tray down and curled up close. Diana put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze — the re assurance as much for herself as for her stepdaughter.

“I have some unhappy news for you.” She heaved a breath. “Mr Jameson will not be returning as your piano tutor.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped. “That is too bad. He was ever so charming, and smelled much better than Mr Bent.”

Diana smiled — it was the only way to keep the tears from welling up again. “That he did.” She leaned over and rested her head against Samantha’s. All brightness was not gone from her life, no matter how dreary the day might feel.

“My Lady.” The butler bowed at the parlour door. “Forgive me for interrupting. You have a caller. Are you at home?”

She straightened. Nicholas wouldn’t dare — not if he had a shred of sense. It had to be Lucy. One way or another, she would have to face her friend.

“Yes, I am receiving.”

“Very good.” He extended the silver salver, a vellum card centred on it. “Shall I show him in?”

“Him?” Her lips pressed tightly together, she took the card. If it was Mr Jameson … “The Marquess of Somerton?” She stared at the unfamiliar name. “I don’t believe I know any such person. Please tell the gentleman I am not taking visitors today.” Particularly uninvited ones. She could not face another stranger in her house.

“Very good.” The butler departed.

“Thank you for the chocolate, Samantha.” Diana gave her stepdaughter another quick embrace. Really, she ought to bestir herself. There was no use sitting in the parlour when it held such memories of Nicholas.

“I’m glad it helped. Chocolate often does.” The girl jumped up and gathered the cups and tray, then paused and kissed Diana’s cheek before bustling out the door.

Voices filtered from the hallway, and then the butler was back.

“I am sorry, My Lady, but the Marquess insists he will see you. He vowed to toss me into the street if I stood in his way.”

Diana rose, then nearly folded back down on the settee when she saw who had followed the butler in.

Nicholas.
The breath squeezed from her lungs while a wild, giddy clamour started up in her blood.

“Please go,” she breathed. No matter how much she wanted to remain unmoved, the expression in his familiar grey eyes nearly undid her.

He was carrying an exuberant bouquet of roses, which he handed to the butler. “See to these.”

Clever man — if he had given her the flowers, she would have flung them back in his face. As soon as the butler departed, she turned on Nicholas. Piano tutor, marquess, whoever he claimed to be today. “How dare you?” Her ribs felt as though a band of silk were wrapped around them, pulled too tight. “To think, what we did under Lucy’s very roof! And then you come here, bullying my servants, and—”

“Diana.” He closed the distance between them and took her by the shoulders. Fool that she was, she could not move away from his touch. “I don’t think my cousin begrudges the use of her library. She has done far worse in my best carriage, with never a word of apology.”

“Your … your cousin?” She blinked up at him, her heart catching with a wild, irrational hope. “Lady Pembroke is your cousin?”

“Yes.” A mischievous light sparked in his eyes. “Lucy. My meddling plague of a cousin. The one who bribed Mr Bent to take an extended holiday, then suggested I pose as a piano tutor and tempt you out of hiding.” He shook his head. “But it didn’t work.”

“No?” She had been tempted, all too easily. Even now she felt breathless.

He smiled at her, rueful and amused all at once. “My plan was to slowly draw you out. To, as Lucy put it, ‘help ease you from your widowhood’. But falling in love with you made things bloody awkward.”

Falling in love? Happy tears tingled at the back of her eyes. The Marquess of Somerton? “But … you make an excellent piano tutor.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders and he drew her forwards. “I assure you, I make a far better suitor.”

She went willingly, lifting her face to his kiss. A kiss that swirled her senses, even as it anchored her fully to herself. A kiss full of passion. Delight. Life.

As a partner in crime, Stephen Hammond was an abysmal failure so far.

Lady Sabrina Pearson shot the man crouched next to her a withering look. “Can’t you do this faster?”

He muttered something unintelligible in response, which she had a feeling was not meant for her innocent ears, and his long fingers worked the metal picklock in the door.

Five minutes later, still no success.

“Stephen — ”

“It isn’t as blasted easy as it looks, Sabrina.” He hissed the words and almost the minute he spoke there was a clean, smooth click that signalled success. With a graceful, mocking bow, he opened the door for her. “I wish you joy in your burglary, My Lady.”

Dignifying that ironic tone was beneath her, so she swept past him into Lord Bloomfield’s study, adjusting her lantern so it illuminated the space better. The room was cluttered and smelled of stale tobacco smoke, spilled claret and musty books she doubted the man had ever read.

Bloomfield was an academic buffoon, a charlatan of the worst order, and without the papers and notes, he would be exposed as such. His Lordship had stolen her father’s life’s work and she intended to get it back. It was her only legacy and, since Bloomfield claimed the papers had been lost during a fire at their last encampment in Egypt after her father’s death, he could hardly charge her with the theft, even if he knew who had broken in and taken them.

It was really, in her opinion, a brilliant plan. It hadn’t been quite so easy to convince Stephen to help her, but in the end, he’d grudgingly agreed. Now all she had to do was find where the papers were stashed.

“See if the desk has any locked drawers,” she suggested, keeping her voice low. “If it does, go to work on them, please.”

“Whatever Your thieving Ladyship desires,” he murmured in a mocking tone, but did go over and begin to examine the desk. In the dim lamplight, his dark hair looked dishevelled, and a wavy lock fell over his brow as he frowned in concentration. Sabrina, in turn, roamed around the room, scouring the shelves for any hiding place, taking out books, even lifting a painting off the wall to see if there might be a cubbyhole behind it.

“The bottom left drawer is locked.” Stephen’s voice held an audible sigh. “I’ll do my best, but I think this is all confirmation that I should hold to my chosen profession as a solicitor and help uphold the law rather than break it.”

“It isn’t theft to take what should be yours,” Sabrina pointed out.

“Rationalization has its place. I suppose this is one of those occasions.” He bent down and went to work on the drawer. The scrape of the picklock came clearly, the little clicks loud in the otherwise quiet, shrouded room.

No, they wouldn’t be, Sabrina assured herself, replacing a small statue of Isis on the mantel. It was a huge house, all the servants were abed, His Lordship had left for London that morning, and this was the perfect time to regain the documents.

It felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes before Stephen said, “There it goes. I’ve got it open. You’d best come over here. I am not as confident of recognizing what we’re looking for. Is this it?”

She crossed the room, handing him the lantern, excitement making her heart beat rapidly. In the bottom of the drawer was a leather pouch, and, sure enough, as she lifted it out with shaking hands, her father’s initials were engraved on the front of it.

How many times had she watched him tuck away a bit of vellum into that pouch? How many times had he turned to her, his quick, affable smile curving his lips, his face alight as he talked of the latest discovery?

Tears blurred her eyes and she had to clear her throat as she untied the leather strings that kept it closed and saw his familiar scrawl across the papers inside. “This is it. I knew his notes were here.”

Stephen touched her shoulder. It was light, just a brush of his fingers, but it was comforting. “Even if this is the most reckless thing I can remember doing since you talked me into trying to fly by jumping out of the top of one the tallest trees on your father’s estate, I’m glad we came. However, in the interest of prudence, I think we shouldn’t linger. An undetected escape would make me feel much better than the broken leg I suffered after the misbegotten flying attempt.”

Sabrina gave a muffled laugh. “I felt awful. If you remember, I was most contrite and came over every day with sweets I wheedled from our cook while you recovered. I’m surprised you didn’t emerge from that injury as fat as a piglet.”

“Yes, well, let’s reminisce over our childhood escapades later, shall we? I think we should just go out the window. Either way, His Lordship is going to know he’s been robbed. Going back through the house carries more risk.”

He was undoubtedly right. Stephen was always right. It was infuriating at times, actually. She was the impulsive one; he was the steady logical antithesis of her personality. Where she had dreams … Stephen had
plans
.

She followed him to the window. He unfastened and lifted it, a tall, lean form in the dim light. He looked outside and then eased over the sill to drop into the dying autumn garden below. As she sat and swung her legs over, he turned to catch her, the leather case clutched in her arms. Stephen quickly lowered her to the ground. Her hand firmly grasped in his, he practically dragged her across the lawn of the park to the edge of the wooded area where they’d left their horses. In a swift motion he lifted her into the saddle of her mare, swung on to his own horse, and they walked at first back towards the road, where they urged their mounts to a trot. It was a clear evening, but cool, a hint of chimney smoke in the air and a scattering of stars above in the velvet sky.

“There’s an inn a few miles on.” Stephen glanced over, his face chiselled to planes and hollows in the indistinct illumination. “Bloomfield is in London and so it isn’t as if we have to avoid heated pursuit. At a guess, no one will know anything is amiss until his return. Even then he can’t really raise a hue and cry over what he supposedly never had in the first place.”

For a man who had been firmly opposed to her plan and had to be coerced into helping, he certainly sounded smug now that the deed was done and the mission successful. Sabrina arched a brow. “True. It’s rather a perfect crime in my opinion.”