The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (11 page)

“Once he and I wagered on who could stay up the longest,” Parnell continued, his pale features smirking, “and Wick managed to go three days and nights without sleep.”

As if Wick wasn’t addled enough, he had a friend who encouraged sleep deprivation. Just bloody perfect.

“A fellow with staying power, eh? Mr. Murray sounds like someone I’d like to get to know better.” Mrs. Sumner’s blackened lashes lowered in a roguish wink.

Why was his brother such a damned magnet for trouble? Gritting his teeth, Richard prepared to reply, but Miss Kent beat him to it.

“Mr. Murray is very busy these days,” she said primly. “He has to think of his future.”

Mrs. Sumner’s plucked brows shot up. “You speak for him, Miss Kent?”

“As a friend, I do.”

Her steady reply ignited a sudden, unpalatable sensation in Richard. It took him a moment to recognize the feeling as… jealousy. Of his own brother? The possibility flummoxed him. All his life, he’d looked after Wick—would give the other the shirt off his own back if necessary. Yet Miss Kent’s loyalty and concern made his chest constrict with a contemptible emotion.

Longing.
For something that would never be his.

Blocking out the unacceptable thoughts, he turned to Mrs. Sumner. “As Mr. Murray’s brother, I can assure you that his plate is presently full. He has no time for diversions.”

“Pity.” The widow’s gaze roved over him. Then she leaned forward, giving him an unobstructed view of her twin assets. “Tell me, my lord,” she cooed, “does stamina run in the family?”

His neck heated. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? This was one of the many reasons he loathed flirtation. He’d never had a talent for navigating the labyrinth of hidden meanings and innuendo. He preferred honesty and straight dealing. When Lucinda Belton had laughingly declared, “I’ve never met a man as direct as you, Carlisle—why, you’re as blunt as a mallet,” she hadn’t been wrong.

As he struggled to come up with an acceptable reply, Miss Kent spoke up.

“It seems you’ve fallen into your dish, Mrs. Sumner,” she said with studied candor.

He saw that the widow’s bodice was indeed soaking up the sauce from her plate. Straightening, Mrs. Sumner reached for her napkin and rubbed at the greasy spot on her bosom—slowly, her fingertip tracing a suggestive circle. She winked at him.

By Jove.
Appalled, he looked away.

The widow said casually, “How kind of you to notice, Miss Kent.”

“Rather difficult not to,” Miss Kent said.

Her disgruntled tone lifted Richard’s spirits.

Abruptly, she turned her attention to the acrobat seated on the other side of Goggston. “Monique, I’d love to hear more about the secrets behind your performances. And yours as well, Mr. Burns,” she added.

Next to Parnell, Cedric Burns flashed white teeth that sparkled against his tanned complexion. “I haven’t any secrets, m’dear. What you see on the stage is purely the result of practice and skill.”

Monique reached for her goblet of wine, smirking. Richard thought that her beauty was like beveled glass: it had a hard, polished edge. Unlike Miss Kent, whose fresh prettiness owed nothing to artifice, the acrobat honed her charms with rouge and paint.

“Pure fustian, Monsieur Burns. The Great Nicoletti claims the same thing,” she said, “yet he cuts his assistant in half with a saw and then puts her back together again. Tell me, what sort of
practice
makes such a feat possible?” Her smile was derisive. “Every great performer has secrets.”

“If you don’t care to share the tricks of your trade, Burns, just say so,” Parnell drawled.

“Hard work is the trick,” Burns protested. “My partner and I practice for hours each day.”

“Where is the lovely Miss Ashe, wot?” Wormleigh said from halfway down the table. As usual, the aging dandy appeared foxed, his jowls ruddy above the elaborate folds of his cravat.

“She developed a megrim. Sends her regrets,” Burns said.

“Too bad. Never met a gel who could handle fire.” Wormleigh leered. “Would like to know her secrets, wot.”

“A woman must guard her secrets as closely as her jewels.” Monique raised her glass to her rouged lips. “They are her most valuable commodity.”

“What if she doesn’t have any secrets?” Miss Billings piped up.

“Then she has no choice but to rely on her jewels.” Smirking, Parnell said, “Stunning necklace, by the by.”

Miss Billings beamed. “You’re ever so kind, my lord. It’s a French heirloom.”

By Richard’s reckoning, Parnell hadn’t given her a compliment but an underhanded barb. And while Richard, himself, found some of Miss Billings’ habits annoying, she was, in general, an artless, well-meaning sort of female. She did not deserve to be publicly insulted—and in front of guests who were, at that very moment, dining on her generosity.

“You look lovely, Miss Billings,” Richard said brusquely. “With or without the jewels.”

His hostess blinked, her jaw slackening.

“I agree, Gabby,” Miss Kent declared. “You look marvelous.”

She glanced at him—her tawny eyes surprised and… approving? Warmth spread through his chest like sunshine.

The others launched into superlatives about Miss Billings’ jewelry. Richard was no connoisseur of gewgaws, but even he could guess that her necklace must have cost a king’s ransom. Deeply hued sapphires, each the size of a thumbnail, were set in a web of icy, glittering diamonds.

“Now Miss Billings,” Monique cut in silkily, “with your earlier statement I must disagree. Everyone has secrets.”

The hum of conversation faltered; guests shifted in their seats. Richard guessed that the Frenchwoman’s pronouncement had made each and every one acutely aware of whatever knowledge he or she didn’t wish others to know. Memories of his rendezvous with Miss Kent smashed through his mental barriers. How indescribably good she had tasted, how soft and perfect she’d felt in his arms…

Beneath the table, he hardened with shocking swiftness.

“Well, I don’t have any. Truly,” Miss Billings chirped. “I’m ever so boring, nothing mysterious about me at all. Father says I’m like an open ledger…”

For once, Richard was grateful for the girl’s droning soliloquy. As she went on and on, it gave him a chance to recover from his disreputable state. He’d gotten to about half-mast when the soft underside of a slipper slid up his calf. All the muscles in his body went rigid; he shot a disbelieving gaze across the table. From the way Miss Kent was angled subtly forward in her chair, there was no doubt it was she who was caressing him under the table.

Good Lord, was she
playing footsy
with him?

Lust clawed at him. In an instant, he was rock-hard again.

She froze, her gaze lifting slowly to his. He didn’t have time to mask his reaction, the hunger raging through him. Her eyes widened… she looked
startled
? What the hell did she expect when making such a bold advance?

She sprang from her seat. Which obliged the gentlemen around her, himself included, to rise as well. He cast a quick glance downward; thank God his jacket hid his rampant cockstand.

“Pardon me,” she blurted.

Cheeks pink, she took off like a doe.

It took every ounce of his willpower not to follow her immediately. To track her down and finish what she’d started. But to do so would elicit talk… so he forced himself to bide his time. The ten minutes he waited felt like ten years. Finally, he excused himself. With anticipation roiling in his veins, he went in search of the naughty minx so that he could settle the score between them once and for all.

~~~

Violet walked through the halls of the mansion in an agitated state, barely noticing where she was going. She couldn’t believe what she’d done…
again.
Carlisle was like a bad luck penny. His mere presence brought out her worst behavior. First the fountain, then the Priest Hole, now
this
.

Her heart thumped with mortification. She’d only meant to give Gabby a nudge beneath the table—to keep her promise to stop the other from chattering on. But her foot had missed its mark. Drat Carlisle and his overly long and muscular legs!

Now he had further proof to use against her: more evidence that she was an improper hoyden—the awful flirt
he’d accused her of being. Despair welled beneath anger; for once, she couldn’t keep it at bay.

Why, oh why, can’t I get anything right?

Her heart squeezed as she recalled how Carlisle had looked at her, his eyes forge-dark and smoldering, his nostrils flaring, that muscle ticking in his jaw… for one panicked moment, she’d feared that he might do something crazed. What, exactly, she didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. He’d looked like a man pushed to the very limits of his self-control.

Calm yourself. Pull yourself up by your slipper laces…

She tried telling herself that Carlisle was nothing but a judgmental ass. Yet over supper he’d shown surprising sensitivity and kindness toward Gabby. He’d stepped in, turning Parnell’s mean-spirited remark into a compliment.

So maybe he’s not always a judgmental ass,
her inner voice amended.
Only to you.

The notion offered no comfort. Dash it, why did Carlisle confuse and vex her so? Why did his opinion of her matter so much?

“For crumpet’s sake, stop obsessing over it,” she muttered to herself as she paced down the corridor. “Think of something else.”

Her thoughts veered to Wick, and worry for her friend distracted her from her own frazzled state. Thunder and turf, Wick had looked
terrified
when he’d seen Garrity at the performance, as if his worst nightmare had come to life—and now she’d come to discover that Garrity was a moneylender?

This could be no coincidence and didn’t bode well. The fact that Wick hadn’t shown for supper increased her concern. She decided to go look for him, make sure he was all right.

She headed up the grand stairwell toward the guest wing where Wick’s room was located just around the corner from Monique’s. She arrived and knocked on his door. No answer.

“Wick, it’s me, Violet,” she said softly. “Are you there?”

Still no reply.

Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a scrap of parchment and a pencil stub and scribbled a hasty note against the wall. As she was about to slip the message under Wick’s door, her nape tingled. Her head whipped up, her gaze sweeping the empty hallway. There was no movement in the corridor save the flickering of the wall sconces.

She exhaled. Her overactive mind was playing tricks on her. Bending, she slid the paper beneath the door and hurried back to supper.

Chapter Ten

With simmering anger, Richard watched the door of the library open at three in the morning. She’d arrived exactly as her note had promised, the glow of her taper licking the paneled walls. She was wearing a frilly wrapper over her nightclothes, her hair a gleaming, luxuriant cascade down to her waist: perfect for the assignation she’d planned, he thought grimly.

He rose from a chair in the shadows. “Good evening, Miss Kent.”

She gasped, her candle wobbling precariously in its holder. “
Carlisle.
Gadzooks, you startled me. Wh-what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. But I don’t have to, do I?”

He held up the piece of paper between finger and thumb. The incriminating note he’d watched her slip under his brother’s door. He knew the brief message by heart, having read it over several times in furious disbelief.

W.,

Urgent that we meet. Library—three o’clock, whilst everyone’s abed.

V.

By God, over supper she’d been trifling with him, Richard—even
he
couldn’t mistake a foot running up his leg as flirtation—and the next minute she’d gone running after his brother! Rage seared his chest. The little
trollop
. She was no different from the others. Well, if the shallow flirt thought she could play him like a puppet, she was in for a rude awakening.

Her eyes widened. “Why do you have the note I left for Wick?”

The coquette didn’t even bother to deny that she’d set up a lover’s tryst!

“Because I saw you put it there and retrieved it. Because I’m saving my brother from a world of trouble where you’re concerned,” he bit out.

“Hold it right there.” She slapped her candle down on a table and approached him. “You
stole
the note I left for Wick?”

God, why did she yank on his tether like no one else?

“I didn’t steal it, you brazen minx,” he said through gritted teeth. “I took what should never have been put there in the first place.”

“First of all, you have
no right
to take what is not yours. Second,”—her arms folded over the ruffled front of her wrapper, her eyes bright with anger—“why do you insist in interfering in my friendship with Wick?”

“Friendship? So that is what you
modern
sorts call it?” he said scathingly.

“It’s what anyone who has more than a speck of pea gravel for a brain calls it. Gadzooks,” she burst out, “why must you plague me so? What have I ever done to you?”

“Other than pushing me into a fountain? Or running your foot up my leg during supper?”

That shut her up. For nearly an entire minute.

Huffing out a breath, she said, “Fine. I apologize. Both were accidents.” As if that half-arsed attempt at remorse wasn’t bad enough, she followed it up with a glower. “Now why did you follow me to Wick’s room?”

It was on his tongue to deny that he had. His pride made him balk at admitting that he’d gone after her for any reason. At the same time, he refused to stoop to her level—to play games.

Satisfy your honor, and be done with this madcap business.

“I wished to speak to you,” he said shortly.

“To me? Really?” If sarcasm could drip from words, she’d have flooded the library. “I’d never have guessed given the way you were scowling at me through supper.”

“Me, scowling at
you
? How would you even notice when you scarcely looked my way?”

“Why would I look at someone who blatantly disapproves of me?” She stepped right up to him, toe to toe, her stance fearless. “Who thinks I’m a no-good hoyden?”