The Stanforth Secrets (22 page)

“You think Macy’s a government investigator too,” Chloe said. “We certainly don’t want him to arrest Belinda.”

“Don’t we?” He seemed startled by her words.

“Surely not,” she said anxiously. “If she has those papers, we can persuade her to return them. We wouldn’t want the scandal of a trial for treason.”

He frowned. “I suppose not, though it may not be in our power to prevent it if she is guilty.”

“She is certainly nervous around Macy, and yet she implied at one point that she would consider marrying him.”

“I appear to make
you
nervous,” he said with a direct look, “and yet I hope you have every intention of marrying me.”

“That’s not the same—” she said and then broke off, red-faced. “I don’t know my intentions.”

He smiled slightly. “Well, mine are strictly honorable. Unfortunately.”

They were feet apart, separated by the bulk of the instrument, and yet he could make her ache, dry her mouth, speed her pulse. . . . The crumbling fire flared up, tinting the shadowy room a hotter shade of red.

“Being with you like this is almost more than I can bear,” he said, calmly, though she could sense the strain in his shadowed face. “I can see you respond to every word I say, and yet you deny me.”

She leapt to her feet, prepared to flee him, prepared to flee her own wantonness. “Are you suggesting I should take you to my bed?” she demanded.

He moved slowly toward her. There was a slight smile on his lips, but his eyes were pure passion. “Would you? If I suggested it?”

“Of course not,” she said in an unconvincing whisper, her traitorous body melting toward him.

So casually she did not think to resist, he took her into his arms. Being there, against his body, felt so right. She fit. She belonged. Helplessly, she relaxed and laid her head against his chest.

“Just think,” he said softly as his warm hand rubbed comfortably on her back, and his breath stirred her hair. “We could do this every day, every night.”

She raised her chin to stare at him. This was seduction of the most subtle kind. His hand traced gently along the side of her face.

“Do you know how dreadful it is, my darling, to lie in my bed at night and know you are so close? A few steps to heaven. It is sacrilegious to ignore what we have here.”

To fight her desire to let him take her here, on the drawing room carpet, bathed in the crimson light of the dying fire, she said sharply, “That is a highly irreligious statement.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “You are my religion, my goddess.”

Chloe used all her willpower. “Profanity too,” she said, moving out of his arms.

He took the separation calmly, though the warmth in his eyes bridged the gap. “Not in my religion,” he said lightly, leaning against the side of the piano. “There, the only sin is denial of love.”

Chloe felt as if she should hug herself, do something to prevent herself from flying into pieces. “Not many years ago,” she retorted, struggling for a light tone, “you would have been burnt at the stake, My Lord.”

“And you are burning me now, my darling.”

Surely it was only the reflection of the fire that made his eyes smolder so, but then why did her body feel heated, consumed? Oh, this was terrifying, what he could do to her. She must escape. She made as if to walk past him to the door.

“I prescribe a course of sea-bathing,” she said flippantly, thinking it might do her good too. “The waters of the bay are suitably cold—”

He caught her shoulders, almost bare in her fine silky gown, and pulled her roughly against his body for a violent, burning kiss which bruised her lips and heated her blood, leaving her trembling with shock and passion.

He pushed her slightly away and she stared at him.

“I will give you time, Chloe,” he said. “I will let you dance around this that we have—for a while at least. But
never
convince yourself it is a flimsy thing, blown in the wind. I will never let you go to another man. It is only a question of time, and I’m sorry, I cannot give you endless amounts of that and survive.”

Chloe was speechless, adrift. Never in her life had she known this kind of passion; the kind she saw clearly in him and sensed in herself; a hunger which could wipe out reason, discipline, breeding, and all the laws of society.

He must have read her thoughts in her face. He closed his eyes briefly. “I never knew it would be like this, Chloe,” he said softly. “I thought I could woo you gently, wait patiently. I have waited so long, after all. You push me to the brink of insanity. Perhaps you are right when you say you must leave here. . . .”

After a moment during which Chloe could count every beat of her heart, he released her, then walked to the door. “In the Duchess’s bedroom, as soon as Macy retires,” he said curtly and left the room.

His last statement, coming so quickly after the passion, conjured up the most peculiar vision in Chloe’s mind and she collapsed on the sofa in hysterical giggles. When she had collected herself, she paced the room, hugging herself. In the mirror she studied her huge, shocked eyes and reddened lips.

Stephen, her only real experience of men, had always been gentle. His lovemaking had been courteous and quiet, and though she had felt a vague dissatisfaction, she had never imagined it being any other way. Justin had revealed a whole other side to life, a side that both terrified and excited her. Earlier, walking through the gardens and the farm, she had been promised halcyon days of sunshine and laughter. Now she knew there would be stormy nights too.

She had hated the life of feckless unpredictability Stephen had given her, though it had once seemed what she wanted. Was the life of stormy passion Justin offered any more likely to bring contentment?

More than ever she needed to escape, to search her heart in peace and make decisions she could hold with all her life; but she could not leave just yet. She owed it to the people she still thought of as her own to unmask the evil that had invaded Delamere and restore peace.

In the meantime she should heed the warning. Justin was rapidly approaching his limit, and the sooner she left Delamere the better. She did not believe he would try to stop her if she decided she could not marry him, but her capacity to hurt him troubled her deeply. Until such time as she made up her mind, she should treat him with great circumspection for fear of unleashing a force she could not control.

In him.

In herself.

Right now, she could not bear her own company and did not dare to seek out Justin’s, and so she went to watch Randal and Macy play. Randal glanced curiously and shrewdly at her, but said nothing. Macy exchanged only courtesies before returning his attention to the game.

It was an interlude of tranquility, with the click of the balls punctuating the crackling of the fire in the grate. The men spoke briefly and occasionally. The house around was quiet, as most of the staff were in their beds.

It was only four days since Justin had returned to Delamere, four days since her primary emotion had been boredom. It was impossible that he could gain such a hold on her mind and her body in four brief days. With honesty, she had to admit his hold had begun years before.

She watched Randal as he played. Both men had removed their jackets for ease of movement, and as he stretched to line his cue up on the ball, an artist could have made studies of him—long, lean, and beautiful, a thoroughbred, a god. Yet, she felt not the slightest desire to touch him. Her heart and pulse continued their steady, accustomed pace. He excited her no more than plump Humphrey Macy.

Justin, however, disordered her constantly. If he had come home from the war scarred or crippled, it would have been no different.

She sat staring at the flames and fell into a brown study of life, men, and marriage. By the time she was jerked back to reality by Macy declaring he was for his bed, she had not summoned one sensible thought.

After Macy had gone, Randal replaced the cues in the rack.

“Care to tell me what’s got into you?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“I could try guessing, and I wouldn’t need three.”

“Randal . . . ,” she warned.

“Pax!” he said, throwing up a hand. “I won’t say a thing. But,” he added with a grin, “you must put poor Justin out of his misery soon.”

“And why, pray, should I have any kindness at all for a man who has been keeping secrets about events in my own home?”

“His home,” Randal pointed out calmly.

“About which he doesn’t care one jot!”

“Of course he cares. If he’s been keeping mum there must be a reason.”

Chloe calmed slightly. “Do you give me your word, Randal, that he hasn’t already told
you
what’s going on?”

“Ashby honor,” said Randal firmly.

Chloe walked to the table and idly rolled a black ball down the baize. “I need to be sure, Randal,” she said.

He took a red out of a pocket and accurately spun it down to cannon off hers. “How sure can we ever be in love, my dear?”

“It’s such a terrible risk. He’s been here for only a few days. I don’t know him.”

He just looked at her. “Don’t you?”

Chloe turned away. Everyone seemed sure of her heart except herself. “It’s all very well for you,” she said bitterly. “You know nothing of commitment. Your idea of love is a physical thing, paid for with money, and got rid of the same way when it grows stale.”

She caught a flash of dangerous anger in his eyes. Then he calmed, though his lips were still tight. Chloe found herself trembling slightly. She had never been afraid of Randal in her life. Was something at Delamere poisoning everyone’s life?

“One thing’s clear,” he said at last. “My interference in your affairs, though well intentioned, does no good. I’ll try to resist the temptation. But don’t judge me like that, Chloe. I know the difference between lust and love.”

“What is it then?” she asked simply and he laughed dryly.

She thought he wouldn’t answer but then he said, “If you love someone, you will seek their happiness even if it means you will never touch their body again. If you lust after someone, you will seek their body, even if it destroys them.”

He swept up the two balls and dropped them in a pocket, then put on his jacket.

Chloe realized Justin had sought her happiness by leaving, once she was married to Stephen. Unsure of his ability to control himself, he had put the greatest possible distance between them. Stephen, however, though she could not accuse him of lustful evil, had never really concerned himself with her happiness at all.

“Come along then,” Randal said, cool and composed as ever. “Bedtime, I think. It will all work out, sweet coz.”

Chloe hoped he was a better prophet than a match-maker. She walked up with him to the bedrooms, but after he had entered his room, Chloe crept quietly along to her grandmother’s. At last she was to discover all the Stanforth secrets.

Justin was already in her grandmother’s room when Chloe arrived. He glanced briefly at her, then away again. She took a seat as far from him as possible, knowing the Duchess had noted the move. There was a strange, pungent odor in the room. Turpentine?

“I am going to tell you,” said Justin, “all I know of events here at Delamere over the last year. Unfortunately, I don’t yet have all the answers. I think I need help to find them, which is why I am going to disobey express orders.”

He then recounted the story told to him in London. He told Chloe about the list of Napoleonic agents, its dispatch in the form of waxed fruits, the disastrous pursuit of d’Estrelles and the package’s arrival in Heysham. So many puzzling incidents clicked into place. The disturbed store-rooms, the soldiers, possibly even the increased number of strangers in the area could all be explained by this.

When Justin revealed the Duchess’s role, Chloe gasped. “Grandmama! How could you have kept all this to yourself?”

“Didn’t like it,” said the old lady, “but I had my orders. If I’d realized there was such danger involved, though, I’d have said to hell with them.”

“And Stephen was trying to serve his country too,” said Chloe, feeling tears gather in her eyes. “He wasn’t just on one of his crazy starts.”

Justin was glad he’d edited that part of the story slightly, but he hoped some newfound hero worship wasn’t going to drive a wedge between him and Chloe.

“And that was why,” Chloe went on, “when I heard strange noises in the storeroom and the dining room, I found you there before me, Grandmama. You were searching.”

“Yes,” said the old lady bitterly. “For a damned apple! Incompetent nincompoops. I did wonder about potatoes, though, and had a poke around through what was left of last year’s stock. Decided I was getting addled.”

“And last night?” asked Chloe. “Was that you too?”

“Last night?” asked the Duchess in surprise.

“No,” said Justin, with a rueful smile. “I was the guilty party. After you made your comment about
pommes
and
pommes de terre
, I decided to check the stores, though without much hope. I’ll know next time not to be so messy in a well-run household!”

“Indeed,” said Chloe, severely. “You show a great carelessness as to detail. I’ll go odds it was you who tampered with my pictures.”

Justin’s face showed his guilt, and his chagrin at being detected. “Now how did you notice that foolishness? I made the cuts very neatly.”

Chloe smirked. “And replaced the pictures in the wrong order,” she said.

Justin groaned, but with a smile. There was almost ease between them again.

“I’m just a crude soldier,” he said. “I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”

Chloe dragged her mind back to business and frowned as she thought over the situation. “We still don’t know whether the message was sent as a potato or an apple. Whichever it was, surely there’s little chance it still exists.”