Chapter Seven
Gwen frowned at him with incredulity. “Your fault? I find that extremely difficult to believe.”
Conviction radiated off of her. For some odd reason, the evidence of her staunch belief in his innocence warmed him. “Is that so?”
In his dimly lit bedchamber, despite her medium height of five feet and, he’d guess, six or seven inches, she looked small and delicate sitting atop the sturdy armchair before his hearth—at first glance.
The effortless elegance with which she moved said she was anything but fragile. Her body was thin, yes, but not skeletal. Lithe and supple and sweetly curved, not sacrificing a drop of femininity.
He knew this, and could not now unknow this, thanks entirely to the ill-fitting gown of gray linen she’d seen fit to wear into his bedchamber tonight—and not a scrap of clothing more.
“Perhaps you ought to explain,” she said, and eased back in the chair-well, curling into it rather than continuing to perch like a bird on the edge of the cushion, prepared to take flight at any moment.
She bent her knees, tucking her slipper-covered feet under the skirts of her ugly dress as if settling in for a long story.
“I always make a point of overseeing the loading of goods with the potential to be dangerous.”
“Such as arms and ammunition?”
“Precisely. Only this time, an issue in my India-based enterprise required my attention.”
“So you sailed for Calcutta. Or should I say we sailed for Calcutta.” She sent him a wry grin, her dimple flashing, then shifted in the seat as if seeking a more comfortable position.
He caught the outline of her knees, poking through the thin linen skirt, glimpsed the tops of her feet, trim ankles, and a hint of shins. More proof she had nothing on under that dress. Not that he needed it.
He downed the remainder of his glass, tossed off the blanket he’d employed as a means of hiding his intermittent, inconvenient arousal, and rose. “I need a refill.”
He strode to his antechamber, unerringly locating the decanter in the dark, grabbed it by its neck, and started back.
There was nothing provocative about Gwen’s gown. It didn’t hug her curves, didn’t emphasize her bosom, didn’t bring out the blue of her eyes.
When she’d positioned herself before the glowing flames in the grate as she had upon entering his chamber, however, the firelight had burned through the thin material to silhouette her body perfectly. He could see, plain as day, she wore no undergarments.
He paused before crossing the threshold to glare at her from the shadows, remembering how she’d stood there, her body essentially bared to him, her long, blonde hair flowing over her shoulders like she was some mythical fae come to life, all the while seemingly oblivious of the erotic vision she made.
Seemingly oblivious. He’d learned long ago how manipulative women could be when they had a mind to make a sexual conquest. So common a practice was it, he was inured to such wiles unless he chose not to be—always—or so he’d thought.
He’d repeatedly chosen not to notice the chit’s arresting appeal making his skin thrum and his blood heat. For some reason, he could not obey his own edict with Gwen.
Bracing himself against the palpable attraction he felt for her, he rejoined her. “Would you care for more?” he asked, splashing a large portion of the ruby liquid into his empty goblet.
She considered the decanter briefly. “Thank you. It’s quite good, but, no. I’ve found more than one glass tends to interfere with my sleep.”
He grinned despite his agitation. She had no compunction admitting to having helped herself to his private stock in his absence.
In fairness, she had thought him dead.
“What was it that required your attention in Calcutta, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He dropped into the armchair, and eyed the blanket with disdain. He’d leave it for now. He had grown overly warm under its weight.
“I have a warehouse in Calcutta where I stockpile goods prior to their export. I have an overseer who manages things in my absence.” He glanced at her, expecting to see her eyes glazed over with boredom.
Instead, she appeared raptly attentive.
“Naturally,” she said.
“It became evident based upon my last two shipments that someone was filching goods. Expensive goods, listed on the manifest, but not found aboard the ship when it arrived at port.”
She arched her brows. “According to whom?”
“The London docks’ customs inspector.”
“Oh. Twice, you say? You don’t suppose he had anything to do with the missing items?”
“Highly unlikely.”
“I’m sure you’re right. And as it happened twice, it’s unlikely to have been an accounting mistake.”
“Correct.”
Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “I assume you never discovered the identity of the person or persons involved in the caper while in India?”
“I did not. But you knew that. How?”
She shrugged and finished off the wine in her glass.
“Because the timing is too convenient. Called away on business, an ocean away, to deal with a matter sure to draw your attention and, ultimately, your presence, at precisely the time your involvement in the arms deal might have averted disaster? Bah.”
Unfortunately, he had come to the same conclusion.
She unfolded her legs and planted her slippered feet on the ground before resting one elbow on the armrest and propping her chin in her hand.
He caught a fleeting whiff of the sweet scent that had escaped her chambers when he’d opened the adjoining door, and which had floated in her wake as she’d crossed to the hearth.
“It seems to me there are only two viable possibilities.”
He gazed at her, utterly transfixed. “Do tell.”
“Either your crew sailed from Calcutta and made an unscheduled stop to sell your goods and pocket the proceeds—an operation which would require someone with authority, who also commanded loyalty and respect, to lead it—such as a captain.”
Gideon frowned. He did not care for that explanation. “Or?”
“Or someone stole the goods after your ship reached port.”
He studied her. “Both those premises deny the possibility the goods disappeared in Calcutta before being loaded on the ships.”
“Correct.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain your reasoning, madam.”
A self-satisfied gleam shone in her eyes.
“Someone involved in subverting your sale of rifles to Britain’s allies created the distraction, sir.
That is the most probable scenario—to lead you away from any possible interference in their scheme to steal the rifles.
As the rifles are forged here, and the location of the sale, Cadiz, is a mere two weeks’ journey from here, whereas India is four-to-five months away by ship, it stands to reason the villain or villains managed their treachery here, not there.
“Even had they wanted to steal the goods from your warehouse in India, how would they manage? It seems unlikely they would have tentacles reaching to Calcutta, or, for that matter, a reliable method of communication between the continents.
“No. The trap was laid here, stolen goods and all.”
He blinked. By God, she had it right. He had come to the same basic conclusion that someone here had sabotaged him, but he had not worked out the why nearly so well.
Regardless of her previous refusal, he poured more wine into her goblet. “Just a drop,” he said.
She inclined her head and picked up the glass.
“As it happens, I agree with you,” he admitted.
“Of course” she said. “My reasoning is only logical.”
He snorted, and lifted his glass toward her in a silent toast.
She gazed at him over the rim of her glass, unblinking, and sipped.
His manhood stiffened. With a grunt of impatience, he swiped up the blasted blanket and balled it onto his lap.
Gwen, of course, noticed.
“Gideon, are you coming down with something?”
“No.”
She sniffed.
He had snapped at her again. He had not meant to. He could hardly explain to her, however, that his annoyance was directed at himself and his own lapse of control.
It had all started with that fresh, sweet scent, carried in on her skin, that ugly dress and her body, limned by the fire.
If that were all there was to it, he’d probably be fine. But he was quickly realizing Gwen was the most fascinating and enigmatic woman he’d met in as long a time as he could remember.
“Out of curiosity, why are you so sure I’m not the villain of this piece?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “It’s your turn, Devereux. Explain how our marriage aids you in untangling this situation.”
He was Devereux, now? “Fair enough, Barnes.”
One corner of her mouth quirked upward.
Her amusement pleased him an inordinate amount, God knew why.
“As it happens…” He broke off, contemplating the choice before him. Tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may, or hedge.
He met her clear-eyed stare for a timeless moment, then made up his mind—for better or worse.
“As it happens, an eye-witness testimony claims to have seen my ship in the immediate vicinity at the time of the exchange. The Home Office seeks to determine whether or not I was there and complicit in the act of treason.”
“Did this exchange coincide with the date of our marriage?”
He gave her an admiring nod. “Not precisely. In essence, the date of our marriage, and its location—Calcutta—makes it impossible for me to have been in the waters off the Spanish coast when a ship bearing a strong resemblance to mine was sighted.”
“I begin to understand.”
“Do you?”
“Aye, sir. Someone set out to frame you.”
“What would you say if I told you I was there?” he asked.
She nibbled the tip of her index finger and studied him as if working something out in that magnificent brain of hers. “I would ask you what led you there,” she said.
He sent her a slow, approving smile. His bluestocking, cognac-consuming, fae-channeling, pretend wife had just asked the exact right question.