The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) (19 page)

‘Cris is to marry you?’ Lady Weybourn caught Tamsyn totally off guard by planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Kate and I told you he was in love,’ she added triumphantly to the two men.

Who on earth is Kate?
‘No, he is not! At least, not with me. It was a ploy, because otherwise I was going to be accused of murder and he was establishing an alibi for me.’

‘Murder?’ Lord Weybourn sat down. ‘You told us that Cris had formed an unsuitable attachment—and I must say, coming from you, Gabe, that is rather rich—but you said nothing about the lady in question being a murderous seductress.’ His smile to Tamsyn was teasing and she realised he thought her neither of those things.

‘Cris might show the world a façade of ice, he might be a marquess and none of us have ever seen him put a foot wrong, but that does not mean he isn’t vulnerable and that when he is, that we don’t guard his back, just as he guards ours.’ For once Lord Edenbridge’s air of care-for-nothing cynicism had slipped and Tamsyn found herself liking him for his fierce loyalty, if nothing else.

She stood up. ‘If you are Cris’s friends, then ask him to tell you all about his time in Devon, but believe me, I want nothing to do with him, ever again. Will you kindly unlock that door, my lord?’ Stepping out into the crowded reception was like plunging into roaring surf. Tamsyn took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face and went in search of the retiring room once again.

Chapter Nineteen

C
ris regarded the stolid figure of the Bow Street Runner seated across the desk from him as he finished his description of the lying witness.

‘Thin, forgettable face and brown hair? Shabby, respectable and with an Essex accent? Aye, I know that one. What’s he calling himself, my lord?’

‘Paul Goode, solicitor’s clerk.’

‘That’s what he was before he went to the bad.’ Jem Clarke, the Runner, nodded, his satisfied smile holding a wealth of promises for Mr Goode. ‘I’ll be glad to lay my hands on Paul Gooding, which is what his real name is. What’s he done this time?’

‘Murder and perjury, for a start,’ Cris said.

‘Hanging crimes.’ The Runner was beaming now. ‘How strong is the evidence?’

‘The perjury, good enough. For the murder, I think we’ll need to trick a confession out of him and do that by confronting him with the man who paid him. And he, I fear, is a viscount.’

‘Tricky. The corners of the Runner’s mouth turned down, then he brightened. ‘But you’re a marquess.’

‘I am. Let me tell you the background to this.’

* * *

He was almost finished with the explanation when Dyson, his butler, scratched on the door and opened it just enough to slide inside. ‘I know you did not want to be disturbed, my lord, but Lord Edenbridge—’

‘Insists.’ Gabriel followed the indignant butler into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt. You entertaining, de Feaux?’ His intelligent gaze skimmed over the Runner in his blue coat and red waistcoat. ‘Or investigating?’

Tempting though it was to try to eject Gabe, he would be as persistent as a dog with a stolen bone. Cris waved him to a seat and introduced him to the Runner. ‘My thought was to get hold of Chelford, let him think we have evidence of what are actually only suspicions and confront him with Goode, after telling him the man’s turned King’s Evidence. With any luck they’ll both say too much.’

‘I’m with you on that. How do we get hold of them both?’

‘I’m relying on Clarke here to find Goode, or Gooding or whatever he’s calling himself this week. When he has, then I’ll invite Chelford to a nice intimate dinner.’

‘I can’t condone kidnapping, my lord.’ The Runner did not look too worried at the thought.

‘Heaven forfend,’ Cris said piously, making Gabriel snort. ‘The doors in this house have locks that are prone to stick, but that’s a minor inconvenience. I’m sure they would prove easy to open if you, for example, were to try one.’

‘I’ll get right on to Gooding’s tail now, my lord.’ The Runner got to his feet. ‘I know who’ll know where to find him, if you follow my meaning.’

‘Let me know if you need to grease any tongues,’ Cris said as the man took his leave.

‘Right, now we’re alone, you can help me think through how to handle Chelford.’

‘Later.’ Gabriel strolled over to the decanters and splashed out two brandies. ‘Your Mrs Perowne is in town.’

‘She is not my—
what
did you say?’

‘Bumped into her at Hermione Ancaster’s little affair last night. Dressed to the nines with a fashionable hairdo that Tess admires. Spitting tacks in my direction.’

‘Why should she be doing that?’ he asked as he grappled with the news. Tamsyn in London. Tamsyn within reach of Chelford. He stared at the glass in his hand and found it was empty.

‘I warned her off you again.’ Gabriel sat down at a safe distance, which was sensible.

Cris put down the glass. ‘Why? You are acting like an hysterical society mother whose little lamb is straying into the jaws of some rake like...you. I, in case you haven’t noticed, am male, almost thirty and no one’s little lamb.’

‘But you are an honourable man and she is a not-unattractive lady in distress who has turned up virtually on your doorstep for no good reason that I can see. If you are not exceedingly careful you are going to find yourself leg-shackled to her. And, if my memory is not failing me, you were only saying a few months ago that you’ll be looking for a bride this coming season.’ Gabriel, on the receiving end of Cris’s most icy stare, smiled innocently. ‘And I’m your friend, so I must look out for your interests.’

‘What is she doing here?’

Gabriel shrugged. ‘Said something about visiting a relative, but not who. Or where. Just as long as she is not chasing a husband.’

Landing his infuriating friend another facer was tempting, but not constructive. Cris got to his feet. ‘I’m going out. Do help yourself.’ He gestured ironically towards the decanters.

* * *

An hour later, after a visit to Masterson in the Albemarle Street shop, Cris used the knocker on the door of an elegant town house in Grosvenor Street.

‘Lord Avenmore to see Mrs Perowne,’ he said as the butler opened the door.

‘I am not sure Mrs Perowne is at home, my lord.’ Cris stepped forward, the man gave way before him and he found himself in the hallway.

‘No? Perhaps you would check. If she is not, then I will wait.’

The man looked as though he would protest. Cris dropped his card on to the silver salver on the side table, raised one eyebrow and waited.

‘Perhaps if your lordship would care to take a seat in here, I will make enquiries.’

Cris settled himself in the small salon and summoned up some patience. He had hardly crossed one booted leg over the other when the door burst open.

‘What are you doing here?’

He stood up, taking his time about it, admiring the vision of fashionable womanhood who had swirled to a halt in front of him. ‘I could ask the same of you.’

‘I am visiting a relative of Aunt Isobel’s, doing some shopping and consulting the picture dealer. Why have you called?’

‘Gabriel told me you were in London. I was concerned about you.’

‘Concerned that I might be pursuing you?’

‘No. Concerned for your safety. You are looking very fine.’

She did not sit, but swept over to take a stand in front of the fireplace, giving him an admirable view of pale primrose skirts and upswept hair that exposed the temptingly soft skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Thank you. I can look respectable if I wish, you see.’

‘I was going to say, I preferred you as I remember you.’

‘Why?’

He was only a stride away, too close to give himself the opportunity for second thoughts. She was in his arms before he was aware of moving, straining back against his hold, but not struggling, her eyes wide, dark, as she searched his face. ‘I remember you naked in the sea, in my arms. I remember you windblown and laughing on the cliffs, I remember your long legs, strong and lovely as the old riding habit blew back against them.’

‘Oh.’
It was a gasp and she wrenched out of his hold and retreated across the room to take refuge behind a low armchair. ‘Do you have to remind me?’

‘I don’t need reminding and I don’t believe you do either.’

‘You arrogant man!’

‘Why is it arrogant to praise your passion and your beauty?’ He stayed where he was, not wanting to provoke her into fleeing the room or ringing for a chaperone.

‘Stop it, you are flustering me.’

‘Good.’ She turned her head away, but not before he saw the colour flooding her cheeks. The movement gave him an excellent view of the vulnerable soft nape of her neck, the elegance of her figure in the well-made gown.
Damn, but I want her...

‘Your friends have made it very clear to me that I should not be associating with you.’

‘No doubt Gabriel has, but I’m not so sure about Tess and Alex. I am not going to be barred from Court simply for knowing you, Tamsyn.’

‘No?’ She sounded wistful, but her back was still ramrod straight, her head still averted.

‘I missed you. Did you miss me?’ As he spoke he moved closer, skirted the chair.

‘Of course I did.’ Still she would not look at him. ‘But it will pass.’

He should go. She was right. It would pass, this feeling, whatever it was. And he could not, must not, court another woman with his mind distracted by Tamsyn Perowne. ‘I wish it would not, Tamsyn.’ And he touched her arm, curled his fingers over the smooth, warm flesh and saw her eyes widen as she started and turned at the touch.

Then she flung her arms around his neck and brought his head down so she could reach his lips and they were lost. He could have sworn he smelled the sea salt on her skin, in her hair, that he could hear the surf pounding on the beach and the gulls crying overhead. The taste of her, the feel of her in his arms, was familiar, yet different, right and yet unsettling. As he swept his tongue into her mouth, finding her again, claiming her, the salt scent yielded to rose water. As his hands spanned the familiar curve of her waist and hip, his fingers encountered fine lawn and the structure of stays.

Tamsyn broke the kiss, laid her head against his chest, held him. ‘You overwhelm me.’ But she did not let him go. ‘I did not want this.’

‘I did,’ he admitted, his mouth buried in her hair.

‘I will not be your mistress.’ It was a fierce declaration and he wished he could see her face.

‘No. I would not ask it.’ Lovers, yes, but he could not bear to see her brought to a position of a dependent, living on his whim, obligated to please him, to pleasure him. Tamsyn was wild and free and her own woman.

‘And I am not negotiating, that was not a demand for something more.’ She broke away, seemingly angry with herself, not with him. ‘I should never have come.’

‘Why
did
you come? And do not tell me, shopping.’

‘I wanted to deal with Franklin, to make him stop, to find a solution to this.’

She sat down and he pulled up a stool so he could sit close, catch her expression. ‘It is dangerous for you. I am dealing with it.’

‘Cris, it is not your problem to deal with.’

‘No?’ He reached out and cupped her cheek. ‘It has become so.’ When she shook her head he added, ‘Let me tell you what I have been doing.’

* * *

‘Lord Edenbridge—’ Tamsyn said when he had finished telling her about the Runner and his discussion with Gabriel.

‘Ignore Gabriel. He is going to find my right fist in his teeth if he does not stop this nonsense. It is insulting to you and it is driving me to distraction. You need have nothing to do with him and he’ll pull himself together soon enough and be of some use.’

‘There is a woman, I think. I don’t know her name, but she is...upsetting him. I saw them at Lady Ancaster’s reception. I do not know what exactly is going on, but I do not think he knows how to deal with her.’

‘Excellent. That will be the first time a woman has tied Gabriel in a knot. It might stop him attempting to nursemaid me.’ What was it that Gabriel had said when he arrived at Barbary Combe House?

A sudden impulse of decency in regard to a woman.
A lady. I thought it better to remove myself before I discovered that I was on the verge of becoming reformed.

‘I can help,’ Tamsyn said.

‘No.’ It made his blood run cold to think what might happen if she sailed in to attack Chelford, all indignation, banners flying. ‘It is bad enough that you’ve been flitting about London unguarded as it is. You could have bumped into him at any time.’ He wanted to keep her in the house, wrapped in cotton wool, protected.

Tamsyn snapped, ‘He is not going to make me a prisoner, or afraid, any more than he is going to make me a pawn in his selfish, greedy plans.’ Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth set and her chin was up.

A warrior queen
, Cris thought with a sudden jolt under his sternum. To treat her like a victim was to deny who she was, a fighter. ‘We need to get our hands on Gooding first, otherwise all we have is pure speculation. Even when we do, it will be his word against Chelford’s unless we can trick him into some kind of confession before witnesses, preferably our Runner.’

‘If he discovers I am in London then that will unnerve him, surely?’ Tamsyn turned to him, caught his hands in hers in her eagerness. Cris quietly closed his fingers and enjoyed the flutter of her pulse, the warmth of her palm against his. ‘He’ll wonder what on earth I am doing here and it might provoke him into rash action.’

‘If he tries rash action in your direction, I’ll break his neck.’ He discovered he meant it. ‘But it might be a good tactic. What we need is for both of you to be at the same party, one we can control and where I can keep you safe. I’ll see what I can persuade Tess and Alex to put on, I doubt Chelford knows we are friends.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked down at their clasped hands and made no move to free herself. ‘And thank you for agreeing to involve me. I know your instincts are all to shut up the women and children and man the barricades.’

‘I only want to shut
you
up safely.’ He lifted his hands until he could kiss her knuckles. ‘But it would be like caging a wild hawk, and besides, you wouldn’t let me do it.’

Tamsyn made a tiny, inarticulate sound and sought his mouth, fiercely urgent, pushing away the knot of their hands so she could find his lips. The heat surged through him as he caught her by the shoulders and pulled her on to his knee.

Mine.
The word beat in his brain, drowning out common sense and caution.

‘Tamsyn!’

She recoiled from his grip back into her chair, sending the stool he was sitting on rocking. Cris got to his feet with a twist and regained his balance to find a trim matron in her forties regarding the pair of them with something between horror and amusement.

‘Lord Avenmore.’

‘Lady Pirton.’ How in Hades a grown man was supposed to maintain his dignity when he was caught in an amorous tangle by the chaperone of the lady concerned he had no idea. ‘I can explain.’

‘There is absolutely no need. Mrs Perowne may naturally count on my protection if she feels in need of it, but as she appears to be an entirely willing participant in your, er, conversation I will retire to the Green Salon and ring for tea. Perhaps you can both join me shortly?’

Cris found himself without words as the door clicked shut behind Lady Pirton. Then, as Tamsyn collapsed into a fit of helpless giggles, he caught sight of his own rigid expression in the over-mantel mirror and gave way to laughter, too.