Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Graeme had moved closer, and he hadn’t simply handed her the key—he’d pressed it into her palm.
“No.” She shook her head. “I ought to have given you this sooner. In all the, er, excitement, I forgot. Nor should I be entering your bedchamber to access the safe.”
“My new valet says you were responsible for the elegant refurbishing, the bathing chamber, and the new bed. He said you ordered the old one burned.”
He lifted the key from her hand, sweeping his thumb across her palm as he did so, sending a wave of sensation through her.
“Would you consider entering my bedchamber for other reasons?”
Her chest tightened, desire blooming in her. “I would… consider… That is, but I wouldn’t do it.” At least not until the will was resolved. And that resolution was the important topic. “You said that you have another approach in mind—those were your words. What is it?”
“I would like to involve Morley and Jarrow. Your brother as well. Will you allow it?”
Panic flared in her. “Will you tell them how the letter was obtained?”
“No. Not the truth, anyway. We can imply that we got it from that woman. Jarrow says there is political opposition to Diddenton that may serve our interest, and Morley is looking into fraud with regard to the land claim. Will you allow me to tell them about the letter?”
“Oh. If you must.”
“Blythe, love.” His arms came around her. “I won’t betray you. We’ll sort this out. Will you trust me?”
There was a firmness to his lips, and yet, a vulnerability in his eyes.
Hadn’t Archie said the same words a few months after their marriage, after her discovery that he’d been seducing the maids? I won’t betray you again, Blythe. Will you trust me? Hadn’t he also looked vulnerable?
No—he’d simply adopted the penitent little boy look he must have used on his grandparents for years.
But this was Graeme, not Archie.
She nodded. “I will trust you. For now.”
“That will have to do.” He dipped his head and captured her lips in a kiss that filled her with such tenderness and yearning that she wanted to weep.
Desire gripped her and she went up on her toes, angling her head and raking her fingers through his hair, pressing so close she could feel the pounding of his heart against hers.
Yes, she would make love to him, here in this new bed, and cleanse the room of the last earl’s debauchery. Graeme, who’d been her friend, and then her enemy, and who was now an ally. One who wanted her.
A door clicked shut in the sitting room and they both froze.
“Leave the tray in there,” Graeme called through the open door of the bedchamber. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
He set his forehead against hers and sighed.
“Blythe. You must know, from the first day I met you—”
“Shhh.” She set a finger to his lips. It had been just enough of a distraction to bring her to her senses.
“I think that you are a good man, Graeme, the sort of man who should christen the earl’s new bed with your countess, not Archie’s, when you choose one.
” She untangled herself from his embrace. “You must go, and I must go.”
“What if the countess I choose was once Archie’s countess?”
Marriage? Marriage to a good man where there was respect and tenderness and friendship… She shook her head. The risk was too great. “I’m too old. Too much has happened. You would come to regret it.”
“What I regret happened fifteen years ago. I’m not that callous, judgmental boy anymore, and I know what I want.”
“No, Graeme. It was my fault, my vanity, my indiscretion. We’ve already discussed this.” She turned to leave.
“I want you, Blythe.” His voice stopped her in the doorway, tempting her to turn back to him. “I’ll return home as soon as this meeting is completed and we’ll have Morley and Jarrow join us. Your brother as well. Will you promise not to go back there? Will you wait for me?”
He knew her well enough to know she was thinking of gathering up Will as soon as he awakened and returning to Soho.
She nodded. “I’ll wait for you.”
For a while, anyway.
The address in Mayfair proved to be a private club. A very private one, inasmuch as he’d never heard of it, frequented by the upper echelon of men in trade, as well as titled and untitled gentlemen, most of whom were religious dissenters.
The porter escorted him to a private meeting room where attendees had already assembled.
Jarrow was not at some physician’s office, he was here. As was Morley. They stood, heads bent together, talking to a gentleman of middling years, while a younger man hovered nearby—Emory, the Chilcombe solicitor’s clerk.
Could the other gentleman be the Chilcombe solicitor, Mr. Fleming?
Graeme had had many surprises in his years of attending gatherings of diplomats and aiding his majesty’s representatives on the British side of negotiating tables.
Those experiences helped him to hide his shock when a hawk-nosed man with graying hair turned from a conversation with Sir William Taylor and a younger gentleman to glance his way.
The Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire had made a personal appearance.
He stiffened his spine and went to greet the duke and remind him of their previous acquaintance years earlier in Paris when he’d been a lowly aide fetching and carrying.
Hermione proved to be excellent at playing Hearts, as well as an excellent teacher to Nicholas and a lady willing to spend hours entertaining both children.
While Blythe paced the drawing room and listened to the friendly chatter of Hermione coaching Nicholas about which card to play, and Coralie about wagering her farthings, out in the hall, Adwick made frequent trips to the front door sending away the nosy visitors wanting to know why she and Graeme had gone to the country and whether they had returned.
Adwick assured them that neither she nor Graeme was at home.
Since word of their late return to town had apparently already spread, the bolder callers, like Mrs. Netley, scoffed a bit before leaving.
Adwick had not needed the help of the hired Runner hovering out of view to assist—so far.
Today, there were three guards on duty, one in the back garden, one at the front of the house, and one roaming the corridors.
She was glad for the Runners. Adwick was no pugilist, and other than Clive, their male servants were older. Nor would her brother Will be any help today.
When a servant reported that Will was still abed, Blythe had visited him. He hadn’t got up because he hadn’t been able to. After a night spent following Lord Vernon to his various haunts, even drinking with the fellow, he’d been too sick.
She’d wager her next quarter’s income that Lord Vernon had tampered with his drink.
Will had patted his bedside and asked her to fill him in on the latest developments. She told him about their hurried trip, the children’s presence, and the morning’s early unsuccessful attempt to find Lunetta.
“Demme, but I would that you hadn’t gone there, Blythe. No place for a lady like you. And you decided to confide in Chilcombe?” Will asked. “Might as well, I suppose. He’s promised me on his honor that he’ll support your claim to Bluebelle Lodge.”
Whether she could truly trust Graeme remained to be seen, but for now, she had no other choice.
She left Will with the footman, who delivered a tray with the housekeeper’s concoction for curing a hangover. Will promised to join them in the drawing room as soon as the floor stopped moving, which he hoped would be soon.
The drawing room mantel clock chimed—again—and Blythe rose and paced to the window facing onto the street. The gray day outside mirrored her emotions. How quickly would Jarrow and Morley arrive for this meeting Graeme wanted to hold with them?
Would Graeme keep her secret?
Perhaps she shouldn’t have confirmed that she’d burned the copy of the will Sir Morris had been carrying. He’d merely surmised those were the papers she was burning from what Coralie had said; if anyone else heard the story, there was no reason to suspect the papers had been the will.
She had debated talking to Coralie, asking her to keep quiet about what she’d seen, but that would only make Coralie suspicious, and once the dear girl decided to ferret out a secret, she could be relentless.
If Coralie should mention to anyone else that she’d seen her burning papers the day Sir Morris died, she could simply say she was upset about the will and was burning something else—love letters from Archie perhaps.
A wretched lie about a wretched husband who’d never written her any such letters.
“Lord Chilcombe will return soon,” Hermione called from the card table. “You know how these gentlemen go on when they’re together without their ladies to hurry them on.”
Blythe sighed and leaned her shoulder against the window and then her pulse quickened.
A carriage had passed, obscuring the view of a man near the park and…
there. Lord Vernon was crossing the street, dodging a curricle and a town coach, hopping over a pile of horse droppings and advancing on Chilcombe House.
She slid into the window curtain and waited and… there. Another man lounged against the iron fence surrounding the park. Mr. Morley had thought to set a minder to follow Lord Vernon.
The dastard had trotted up the front steps of Chilcombe House and disappeared from view. She quickly moved to the door and slipped through it to stand out of sight on the landing and listen.
“Neither Lady Chilcombe nor Lord Chilcombe are at home,” Adwick said.
“Come, come, Adwick. I know that’s not true. I know they’ve just returned from a long journey, and I haven’t seen either of them go out.”
“They are not at home, my lord,” Adwick said firmly.
“Wait.”
She imagined Lord Vernon stopping the door with his foot.
“May I come in and write Lady Chilcombe a note?”
“I’m obliged to tell you that—”
“Not even a note?” Lord Vernon exclaimed.