Trouble With Harry (19 page)

Harry's voice was coming out raspy and hoarse, his breath fast and rough. Plum chuckled a little to herself over the fact that her breath was just as ragged as his.

“I am ever the dutiful wife,” she said as she swung her leg over his, positioning herself so the silky tip of him bumped against the skin of her inner thighs. Then she adjusted herself and felt his heat at her entrance, pulling from her an answering heat that started deep inside her and spread through her soul. “And as you seem to think this will help me…”

Their groans of pleasure were spontaneously given as Plum sank slowly down on him, but her husband's pleasure fed hers, spiraling her on that delicious journey she had learned could take her to heaven and back. She felt a brief moment of power when she remembered that one of the joys of the Blind Maiden was that she could set her own pace; no insistent hands would grip her hips and hurry her into a tempo that would send them heedlessly toward paradise. Instead she rose and fell upon him slowly, ignoring her husband's throaty pleas to cease tormenting him and ease his torture.

“You said this was for my benefit,” she pointed out as she tried a little swivel to the side. Harry bucked beneath her, his hips rising as a harsh moan was torn from him. “I'm simply trying to maximize the cure.”

“You're trying to kill me,” Harry accused, panting, his entire body shaking beneath her. Plum tried an interesting little circular motion as she sank down on the hardness that pierced her to her core, her eyes closed despite the darkness, feeling every nuance of him sliding deep within her.

“I can feel your heart beating,” she said dreamily, leaning forward to kiss him. “You're so hot within me, Harry, we must be burning up. I love the feel of you, I love the feeling of you entering me, piercing me, and joining with me. It makes me feel as if I'm part of you.”

“You are part of me,” Harry answered, his tongue and lips teasing her mouth until she opened and let him in. “You're the best part of me. I could never be whole without you. You are my wife, my lover, mother to my children, my heart. I couldn't exist without you.”

Plum squeezed her eyes tight against the tears that threatened to spill out at his words, and kissed him with every ounce of passion she possessed. Their souls were joined, entwined as they were both lifted toward the pinnacle of pleasure, her mouth plundering his as he plundered hers, both straining to incite the other to greater heights of passion. Plum moved urgently against Harry, kissing him frantically as the wonderful power within her uncoiled and filled her with joy and love that overflowed her being and spread to him, bonding her to him, merging the two beings into one, blinding her to all but the strength of his love.

She sobbed out her love as he shifted beneath her, spilling his seed against her thigh as he shouted her name, the two of them caught in a maelstrom that receded slowly, leaving Plum drained and boneless, resting on her husband as she attempted to catch her breath, trying to understand the power of the experience she had been given, wanting but unable to put into words what it meant to her, what
he
meant to her, how very much he had enriched her life, giving her something more valuable than all the riches in the world.

Instead she tipped her head back and kissed him on his jaw, whispering, “I love you, husband.”

“There, you see?” Harry gasped, his chest heaving beneath her. “I told you that you would feel better afterward.”

Plum bit his chin.

Harry set off for the Home Office the next morning with a song in his heart and slight leather burns on his wrists. All was right in his world—the sun was shining, the children hadn't done anything worse than soap up the banisters in order to conduct banister races down the main stairs, and he had left Plum lying exhausted in his bed, her raven hair tangled and spread out around her, a smile on her face as she slept. He whistled a jaunty little tune as his carriage bowled along the streets of London, making a mental note to remind Plum that the choice of tonight's activities was his, and Gladiator's Revenge was most definitely in the cards. He much looked forward to wielding his sword in a manner that was sure to keep her captivated.

“Lord Rosse?” A slight young man with suitably deprecatory tones bowed and murmured Harry's name as he handed over his hat and gloves to a Home Office flunky. “Lord Briceland is waiting for you. If you will come this way.”

Harry was escorted into a small office at the back of Whitehall. The tall, thin man with a wispy blond mustache who was seated behind an immaculate desk rose as he entered, holding out a pale hand. “Lord Rosse, what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you from the PM and others, I feel as if I know you.”

Harry greeted the new head of the Home Office and took the offered seat. “I take it you've read my report?”

“With great interest, yes,” Briceland said, leaning back in his chair. “I must tell you, I find it difficult to believe that you willingly allowed yourself to be used to prove Sir William's guilt. What the PM must have been thinking…but it's not my place to question either his or your actions. The plan proved fruitful, and you did acquire the proof needed to charge Sir William with treason.”

“Just so. About your information—as you will have read in my report, I can find no proof that Sir William was working with anyone but the anarchists who were later hanged. I checked and double-checked my notes with the various informants and Runners employed by me at the time, and no word of another individual was ever breathed. As far as I can find, Sir William was alone in his perfidy—at least as far as individuals in the Home Office went.”

Lord Briceland offered Harry a cigar. He shook his head, desirous of ending the interview as soon as could be managed. He had a wife to smother with attention, not to mention five hellion children who were at that moment quite probably up to some nefarious plan or another.

“I understand your reticence to believe that there was another individual involved, but I believe that not to be the case. I called you to London because the PM assures me that there is no one better to sniff out the truth than you.” Briceland pulled open a drawer, extracting a limp, stained, much-battered piece of parchment. He handed it to Harry. “What you see is a letter that was sent to us anonymously. As you might notice, it is dated some fifteen years ago.”

Harry glanced at the letter, his eyebrows rising at the date. “It was written the day before Sir William took his own life.”

“Yes,” Briceland said. “Please read it. I assure you it concerns you enough to justify calling you to town when you must be wishing to be with your new wife and family.”

The letter was not addressed to anyone, although it was signed “Bill.”
This
will
find
you
after
I
am
dead
, the letter read.
Do
not
despair
of
my
death; I always knew the price of freedom would be a high one. All I ask is that you avenge my death, seek my murderer, and strike at him as surely as he has struck me. I do not lightly ask this of you, for I am certain Rosse has a friend in Addington, and the PM is stalwart where his friends are concerned, but I have faith that in this you will not fail me.
Harry looked up. “Interesting. Your informant gave you no clue as to who it was addressed to, or how he gained possession of it?”

“No information whatsoever. It was sent as you see it with no accompanying note. You can see my reason for concern; the letter contains an obvious threat to your life.”

Harry handed the letter back with a slight smile. He liked the new head of the Home Office, but never again would he put himself in a position where his life could be destroyed by treachery—not now, when there were so many other people dear to him. Until he had proof of the identity of the man believed to be behind the attacks, he would disregard Briceland's concern about the threats against him. “One that is fifteen years old, yes. I believe it's safe to assume that whomever the letter was sent to decided not to act on Sir William's urging.”

Briceland leaned forward to take it, a frown between his brows. “Regardless, the fact that the letter should come to light now indicates that the grudge against you by this unknown person might well still pose a threat to you.”

“I hardly think so,” Harry said as he got to his feet. “But if it will make you easier, I will do a little investigating as to who Sir William's friends were. I doubt if many of them are left, but it can't hurt to check.”

The two men shook hands, Briceland accompanying Harry to the door. “Rosse, a word of caution, if I may. Do not take this threat lightly because it is of long standing. I understand that you lost a governess to a house fire recently.”

Harry smiled. “A tragic event, I agree, but one due to a faulty flue and not the hand of Sir William reaching fifteen years beyond the grave.”

“Have caution,” Briceland repeated. “You might be surprised to learn just how far-reaching Sir William's influence was.”

***

Plum rose from where she had been clutching the closestool, shakily wiping her face with a damp cloth. This was the fourth morning she'd woken feeling extremely ill, and although the other days could be excused by the less-than-wholesome food they'd eaten at inns on the way to London, she was no fool. She had been carefully keeping track, and although her monthlies were never of the terribly reliable variety, the fact that she'd missed two, plus the morning indispositions, confirmed her hopes and desires and dreams…only, sweet St. Genevieve, how was she to tell Harry? Not only had the man insisted that he would not give her a child—only spilling his seed in her twice in the two months of their marriage—but just the night before, when they arrived in town after four days of travel with the children, he was growling very detailed threats about locking them up in a garret until it was time to return home.

Perhaps now was not the time to inform him there was another child on the way. She only hoped she would be able to keep her extreme joy and happiness at finding herself with child dimmed to a level he would not find suspicious.

Another wave of nausea overtook her. She lunged for the closestool, just barely making it before her stomach relieved itself.

“I'm joyous and extremely happy,” she told herself between retches. “I just can't let anyone know that yet.”

Somehow, she thought as she heaved over the porcelain bowl, she doubted if that would be too difficult. Besides, she had other things to occupy her mind, one item in particular—Charles. What his intentions were and how she was to keep him from telling everyone what he knew were uppermost in her mind, but selected secondary considerations such as how to shield Harry so he wouldn't hear of Charles's return from the watery grave also filled her thoughts.

“Are we ready for our morning excursion?” she asked as she—joyously, and with much happiness—clutched the banister while descending to the main hall. Particular care was needed around stairs, as one never knew when the children might decide to arrange for a concealed trap. Harry was becoming very adept at avoiding the traps as he clattered down the stairs, leaping gracefully over steps made slippery with grease, but with the precious burden she knew herself to be carrying, she would have to be particularly careful.

All the children were present—India was reading a book, McTavish and the twins were rolling on the floor arguing over a wooden figure meant to go in their sailing boats, Thom was chatting with one of the London footmen whose name she couldn't remember, and Digger was standing at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at her. Behind him, Juan was dressed for the outdoors, holding her parasol and gloves.

“You're late,” Digger said with a scornful curl of his lip. “You said ten o'clock. It's three minutes after!”

“I beg your pardon,” she said humbly, eyeing Juan as she took the parasol and gloves. “We can get started now if everyone is… Juan, are you accompanying us?”

Evidently he was waiting for just such an opening, for he flung himself at her feet and scattered wet kisses over the back of her hand. “It will be the greatest joy in my heart to be of the many services to my most very lady.”

Gently Plum disengaged her hand. “Is it the norm for fashionable butlers to attend their mistresses? I had rather thought that was in the line of a maid or a footman.”

He got to his feet, giving her a sidelong glance that would have simmered stew. “It depends on the mistress, does it not, delicious one?”

Plum opened her mouth to dispute the innuendo he was making, then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. To be truthful, she liked Juan despite—or rather because of—his flirtatious nature. “Well, we shall just have to make it a fashion, shall we not? Are we all ready? Excellent. Off we go.”

Fortunately for her nerves, she did not have long to wait before her questions regarding Charles and what he wanted were answered. She and Thom were strolling across the park while the children shrieked and ran circles around them when she noticed Charles bowing to her from the back of a bay gelding.

“I see an acquaintance I must speak to,” she told Thom. “Could you please take the children on to see the Serpentine? Don't let them go into the water, and don't let the girls climb any trees, or they'll tear their gowns, and don't let the boys pretend they're beggars and solicit people for money like they did yesterday, and don't let them—”

Thom laughed and held up her hand. “I won't let them do anything but sail their boats.”

“Thank you,” Plum said with a grateful smile. “I'll be with you shortly. Juan, you and…er…the footman may attend to Miss Fraser.”

Juan shook his head, simultaneously waggling his eyebrows. “Harry would not be liking that.”

“He wouldn't?” Plum asked, one eye on the approaching Charles.

“It would not be making him happy, no. He would want me, your Juan of the most devoted nature, to be always at your side, protecting you against the rousing rabble.”

“Traditionally there are very few rabble-rousers to be found in Hyde Park,” Plum pointed out, shooing him toward Thom. “I will be fine by myself.”

“I will tear my heart out with my own hands and stomp on it heartily before I abandon the most beloved of all my mistresses,” Juan said with a dramatic flare to his nostrils that warned of the strength of his intentions.

Plum gave up trying to shoo him away. “Very well, but stay well back. I have no need of your protection now. Go on, Thom. I will meet you later.”

Thom cast a curious glance to where Charles was dismounting, handing his reins to a groom before strolling toward Plum, but made no further comment as she hurried off after the children. Juan loitered around in the background; she hoped far enough away that he couldn't overhear her conversation.

“Charles,” Plum said as he stopped before her, making her an elaborate bow. “I rather suspected I might run into you. I just had no idea it would be so soon.”

“As effervescent a wit as ever, my dear,” he said, holding out his arm for her. “I find myself unable to pass by the opportunity to have a cozy little chat with you. Shall we stroll in this direction?”

She scorned the offer of his arm, but began walking in the direction he indicated, thankfully in the opposite direction from the artificial lake where the children had been headed. “About what do you wish to chat? Surely you have little to say to me, and I have nothing pleasant to say to you.”

“My dear, my dear,” Charles protested in so patently false a tone of dismay that Plum wanted to kick him in the shins. “I am wounded that your thoughts have not softened toward me over the years.”

“Softened?” Plum asked in mingled horror and fury. “You ruined me, cast me aside without any regard for my well-being or future. For all you knew, I might have been pregnant, and yet you allowed your family to bundle your wife and you off to the Continent without so much as a second thought about me. How is your wife, by the by?”

“Dead these last seven years, poor soul. I remarried, the daughter of a Greek nobleman, a rather rough girl, but pleasing enough.” Charles tried to chuck her under her chin. She smacked at his hand. “Helena is much more biddable than you were, my dear, but alas, that has its drawbacks. She has not the fire you had in bed—”

Plum slapped him, as hard as she could with her gloved hand, which unfortunately did not allow her much of a slap. Still, it was better than nothing. “I tolerate your presence here simply because I must know what you want of me, but I will not allow you to abuse me any further, not even verbally—Juan, no, release him, he is not a rabble-rouser.”

“You struck him the blow,” Juan said, his eyes filled with Basque vengeance as he grabbed Charles by the neckcloth. “Now I must strangle him. Harry would not like it if I did not avenge the dishonor this one has done you.”

“It's all right, he simply spoke without thinking. Please release him, Juan,” Plum soothed, pulling the distraught butler from a red-faced Charles.

Juan allowed himself to be stopped from throttling Charles, but he spat something out to the latter that sounded like a curse before walking a few feet away to seethe in a menacing manner.