Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The pen slowly scratched across the surface of the paper, each word carefully considered.
Barbara hummed softly to herself, hoping her entreaty would have the desired effect.
She was writing to her mentor Mr. Sinter, to ask for his help in evaluating what she was certain were counterfeit canopic jars, though of course without hinting that this was part of a larger investigation.
It was a delicate balance, and a convenient way to occupy her mind this afternoon.
Because anytime she wasn’t focused—any time her mind wandered—she found herself remembering last night.
Remembering the way Kenneth had, quite frankly, fulfilled every dream she could have imagined, then found a few more.
Who had known that falling asleep in a man’s arms could be quite so satisfying?
Or being awoken a few hours later by his lips on her most intimate places?
Kenneth had made love to her again twice more, introducing her to positions and angles she had never imagined.
Before dawn he’d brought her pleasure with his clever tongue once more, leaving her exhausted and sated and dazed.
And slightly sore in places she had never known she had.
She still wasn’t certain how he’d left her—surely not out the window and down the sheer wall again?—but he wasn’t in her bed when Annabelle finally poked her head around the door to ask why she’d been sleeping all morning.
Now Barbara knew she was going to need a nap—and likely a nice, hot bath if she could convince Elmo and one of the maids to arrange it. There was the most delicious ache between her thighs, all of her limbs simultaneously buzzy and completely relaxed.
Just remembering the way Kenneth’s tongue—
You are doing a poor job of distracting yourself.
Shifting on the hard chair with a little wince, Barbara glanced down to realize her poised pen had dripped ink across the paper. Damnation. Her wince deepened.
Well, she hadn’t liked that phrasing anyhow. It was vital that Mr. Sinter not gain a clue about Kenneth’s real identity nor his mission to investigate the series of misfortunes which seemed connected to the false antiquities.
Did the misfortunes cause the counterfeiting? Or were they a result? Were there more forgeries in collections like Woodcock and the others, or was it limited to this handful of collectors?
With a sigh, Barbara moved the paper aside to be used as scrap by her younger brother in his fire-building practice. Her mind was a jumble, and she couldn’t seem to get the words right to ask Mr. Sinter what needed to be asked.
Can you confirm what I suspect?
No, what Kenneth suspected?
His latest theory, and Barbara concurred, was that the misfortunes each collector had suffered—the possibility of some sort of social ruin—was a direct cause of this subterfuge, rather than a genuine misfortune.
This mysterious ring of counterfeiters were making use of the panic induced by a hint of social ruin to move in and switch the forgeries with the real items. Kenneth had begun working with a team that focused on stolen art, trying to track down any news of feminine canopic jars being sold through less than savory channels.
Still uncertain on her phrasing, Barbara reached for a clean piece of paper—only to startle as Alfred came hurtling into her library and threw himself behind one of her favorite chairs. She froze, only her gaze moving as she tried to find the danger.
After a long moment, however, the sound of chewing came from behind the chair, and she carefully placed the paper down and slowly stood up.
Her younger brother clearly had a treat he hadn’t wanted to share, and as his older sister, it was vital she either tease him mercilessly or coerce a bite for herself.
Moving silently, Barbara crossed the room and eased herself down onto her favorite chair, trying to place the sticky sounds of her brother’s chewing. There was a warm, sugary scent…and her lips curled as she realized what she was smelling.
“And did you bring me some treacle toffee?”
As soon as she spoke, Alfred yelped, and there was the sound of him scrambling.
Grinning proudly that she’d surprised him—clearly he’d been moving too quickly to see her sitting at the writing desk in the corner—Barbara peered over the back of the chair.
“Can I assume Mother and Missus Whinge do not know about this treat?”
Her little brother looked downright guilty. “Elmo bought it from a cart in the street for me.”
Sure enough, the lad clutched a piece of crumbled paper in front of him. When she raised a brow, he stuffed the last of the toffee into his mouth and tossed the paper over his shoulder.
Well really!
Barbara attempted a stern look. “Alfred Andrew Fortesque Fokette, you cannot enter a lady’s library and litter it so, especially if you have brought her no bribe of sweets. Fetch back that rubbish.”
Her brother, chewing defiantly, scooted to the side until he could reach the crumbled up paper…then to her surprise, lobbed it underhand to her.
Startled, Barbara’s reflex was to catch the paper, grateful there was nothing sticky on the surface. Actually, it was quite clean, and—
A word caught her eye.
Frowning, she settled into the chair and carefully unfolded the paper.
It was a scandal sheet, the same one Kenneth had mentioned—had it only been yesterday?—and it bore that morning’s date.
May 1, 1822
Delicate Reader,
Much has happened since the last time you have heard from me.
Spring flowers are melting icy hearts all around, and I consider my work to be successful.
Of course, if I can only warn one young lady away from a rakish rogue, I will congratulate myself, but it seems I am too late for one in particular.
Long has London society been enthralled by the antics of Sir K—F—and rumors of his wicked tongue.
He is the worst sort of rake: one who is too handsome, too witty, too charming…
and knows it. His long list of conquests proves that even those ladies who know the danger do not hesitate to throw themselves at a handsome Scotsman with a roguish grin.
But, dear reader, Sir K—F—has gone too far this time!
Our sources tell us that at the Standish Ball, a wicked wager was made, and the loser is to be one Miss B—F—! Yes, no matter who wins the wager, this Baron’s daughter will lose because of the terms.
Our rake agreed to a wager determining the Best Rake in London, and his terms necessitated the seduction of such an innocent, demure wallflower!
Yes, delicate reader, our Miss F—, she of the academic pursuits, Egyptian antiquities, and lamed foot, already teeters on the brink of social ruin, thanks to her older sister’s recent scandalous marriage. What will such a wager do?
On behalf of all that is Right and Decent in the world, we beg Sir K—F— to reconsider the terms of his wager, and cease the clear seduction of poor Miss B—F—, before social ruin befall her.
Yours quite Brazenly,
The Belle
Barbara’s breaths were coming too fast, and as she reached the end of the sheet, she found her fingers crunching the paper again. The words swum before her eyes…and she slowly looked up, a victorious smile wreathing her face.
It was happening. It was happening!
The threatened misfortune was happening to her—and her canopic jars!
She slowly stood, clutching the paper to her. She needed a plan. She needed to reach Kenneth! Together they could decide how to use this threatened social ruin to their advantage.
“Barbara?” her brother asked tentatively, apparently having managed to unstick enough of his teeth. “Are you quite well? Please don’t be angry—I can have Elmo fetch you some treacle toffee—”
“No!” She whirled on Alfred, eyes bright and mind jumping from one plan to the next. “I need you to fetch Kenneth. No! Have Elmo fetch him, I need to speak with him immediately.”
Her brother edged from the room. “Alright. So no more toffee!”
Barbara beamed at him in excitement. “Just Kenneth. Hurry! My public ruination is nigh!”
Kenneth’s breath was short as he ran—yes, ran—along the dirty London streets. Fook fook shite fook, his mind chanted in time with his pulse. He dodged urchins and shoppers and one particularly enthusiastic treacle-and-toffee cart owner.
Nay, nay, nay!
This morning he’d snuck out of the Fokette home, discovered his boots had been stolen sometime during the night, and did not care. Because his evening had been…
Magical.
He had no confusion over what he was: a rake, a rogue, a lothario. He had made love to dozens of women—though admittedly not at the same time—and often snuck out of their beds before daybreak.
But never, not once, had he felt as conflicted about it as he had this morning.
Holding Barbara in his arms had been magnificent, transcendent—and he was not a man to use the term transcendent lightly when it came to fooking.
Nay, what ye and Barbara did wasnae fooking. That had been making love.
The inner conflict had come when, in the wee hours of the morning, he realized all he had to do to win the wager he’d made with Remington Ives would be to allow himself to be discovered in Barbara’s bed.
The scandal would make the rumor mill, Remmy and Merevale would hear of it, Standish would be perfectly distracted for the investigation, and Kenneth would…
Would what?
Kenneth would what?
Kenneth would go back to the life he’d been living?
Kenneth would lose the woman he was coming to love?
Kenneth would regret everything that brought him to that point?
Nay, he could never regret it. Meeting Barbara—wager or not—was the best thing to happen to him, and making love to her last night had nothing to do with their wager.
He’d been ridiculously aroused by her certainty, her seduction, and he’d happily given into the urge to show her what she meant to him.
And this morning, he’d known he couldn’t hurt her by sticking around.