Lady Carmody had indeed called earlier and left an invitation to an afternoon tea party two days hence. Penny bullied Charles into accepting, pointing out that their five visitors could also be expected to attend; in this season with so many in town, those left were starved for entertainment.
In the early afternoon, they returned from walking along the ramparts with the dogs just as a rider clattered up to the front steps. A private courier, he brought the communiqué they’d been expecting. Charles took the packet, dismissed the man into Filchett’s care, and headed for his study. Penny followed; she leaned on the back of his chair and read the sheets over his shoulder.
He humphed, but let her. Unfortunately, Dalziel had little to report by way of hard facts. Like Charles, he saw Gimby’s death as confirming both the existence of some long-term treasonous conspiracy and its serious nature—people did not kill over a few vague descriptions of troops. The primary thrust of his letter, however, was to disabuse Charles of any notion that the traffic Gimby had facilitated had been incoming rather than outgoing. Dalziel had personally questioned his counterparts in every area; none knew of any source of French intelligence other than via the recognized routes under their purview.
A scribbled postscript acknowledged Charles’s subsequent report; Dalziel would see what he could turn up about the five visitors, but none rang any immediate bells.
Charles laid the sheets aside. Penny circled the desk and dropped into an armchair. They tossed comments back and forth, floated possibilities only to shoot them down. Their discussion waned into a companionable silence along with the afternoon. They had tea, then mounted and headed back to Wallingham.
Crossing the river at Lostwithiel, they glimpsed Fothergill striding away from the riverbank some way upstream. Charles held Domino back, studying Fothergill, then flicked his reins and caught up with Penny.
“Could it have been he, do you think?”
Charles shook his head. “I can’t say. That’s what I was thinking—I didn’t see enough to say anything at all.”
They returned to Wallingham to learn that nothing had occurred in their absence beyond Dennis Gibbs sending a message that he’d make sure not just the Gallants but their brethren along the coast were alerted. Gimby’s murder had clearly left the leader of the Gallants uneasy.
They dined with Nicholas. The knowledge that they were lovers clearly made him uneasy; he didn’t know how he should react to their relationship, but as they didn’t refer or allude to it in any way, he had no need to, and so the meal passed smoothly enough.
However, as the evening wore on and they sat in the drawing room and Penny exercised her fingers at the pianoforte, it became increasingly obvious that Nicholas’s attitude to Charles had undergone another transformation. She couldn’t fathom it; later, when Charles joined her in her bedchamber, she asked him what he thought.
He smiled cynically as he sat on the bed to pull off his boots. “Nicholas is not the murderer, ergo, it wasn’t he who came to your room. Both incidents have shaken him—he’s realized that he should be, and would be held to be, responsible for your safety.” The curve of Charles’s lips deepened. “Nicholas finds himself on the horns of a dilemma. He doesn’t like me, he doesn’t approve of my sharing your bed, but by heaven he’s thankful that by being here with you, I’ve taken one worry—one immediate and very real worry—from his plate.”
Lolling on the bed, idly unbuttoning the nightgown she’d recently buttoned up—Charles would have it off her in minutes anyway, a happening she wished to facilitate—she pondered Nicholas. “He is worried, isn’t he? I mean, it’s concern, anxiety, that type of feeling that’s driving him. You thought originally it was fear, but if he was afraid for himself, he’d run away, wouldn’t he? But he’s staying here, quite deliberately, because he’s extremely worried about something. But what?”
“I don’t know.” Tossing his breeches over her dressing stool, Charles crawled, naked, onto the bed. His gaze had locked on her; he smiled, and reached for her, lifting her to him as he knelt in the center of the bed. “I don’t understand Nicholas.” He bent his head, kissed her lightly, gently tugged at her lower lip. “But I do understand you.”
He settled her straddling his thighs, slid his hands under her gown, and slowly raised it.
What followed proved his point. It was all she’d hoped for, all she’d ever dreamed of, and more. He seemed to know just what she’d like, just what her senses and her prediliction for challenge craved; more, he seemed devoted not just to giving but lavishing such delights on her, until she reeled with giddy pleasure. Until he drew her to him and possessed her, until she gave herself to him and gloried in the giving.
Yet at the height of the giddy whirl there came a point when they stood at the eye of desire’s storm, when in that instant’s fraught hiatus their eyes met, and something else touched her. A oneness, a sense of communion, of a sharing that went so much deeper than the reality of their skins, their nerves, their bodies. That through that shared glance struck to her core, entwined, and sank deep.
It was a moment of power so great she couldn’t breathe; nor could he. Then his lids fell, and his lips found hers; she clung to the kiss, felt desire rise, and let it whirl her away.
She told herself it was just physical, just some linkage she hadn’t noticed before. She was indulging, just as he was; there was nothing more.
Yet she remained conscious of that power, aware that it didn’t leave them, but flowered, burgeoned; its roots ran deep. It remained with them, within them, yet in the light of day, while she could still detect its shadow, it seemed perfectly normal, as if it were something that had always been there and she’d simply failed to notice.
The following morning began as the one before, with Charles leaving her room as she rang for Ellie—as if he were her husband. She noted the fact, attributed it to his arrogance, his male confidence where she was concerned. She took longer than usual to dress for the morning, but then had to return and change into her riding habit as soon as she’d finished with Figgs. If the morning had been a repeat of the one before, the day looked set to follow suit.
So it proved. They rode to the Abbey and received another communication from Dalziel. In it he confirmed that Mr. Arthur Swaley was known to have considerable business interests in tin mines; rumor had it he was down that way looking to further said interests. Mr. Julian Fothergill was going to be difficult to check up on, there being dozens of branches in that family’s tree, but at first glance there was nothing to set him apart. More on him in due course. Carmichael, too, was not a straightforward case; there were hints of debts in the past, but they’d yet to find anyone who knew enough to tell them anything useful. They would pursue Carmichael further. Mr. Yarrow did indeed hail from Derbyshire; there was no one in town who knew much about him. Dalziel had sent a man north to learn more.
Which left Gerond, who, on the face of it, was their most likely suspect. He had military training and was known to be strongly patriotic, however, all links they’d thus far unearthed led to the royalist camp rather than the revolutionary council or any of those bodies that had succeeded it. More information would be forthcoming as and when it was received.
Charles studied the letter for some minutes before folding it and placing it in a drawer.
Penny had been watching him. “What is it?”
He looked at her, then grimaced. “Dalziel’s hunting.”
“Hunting?”
“His hackles have risen, so to speak. He’s mobilizing people, calling in favors. He wouldn’t unless he was convinced the situation called for it.”
Tilting her head, she studied him. “You don’t think it does?”
His gaze had strayed from her; he brought it back and met her eyes. “No. I agree with him. I just wish I didn’t.”
Well-honed instincts, Charles had often thought, were a blessing; they were also a curse. When alert, as they now were, they rode him, nearly to distraction, more specifically to the point
where he was once again toying with plans to get Penny out of the area, preferably to London.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single maneuver that would work. Or rather, kidnapping, transporting, and holding her in his house in London by main force might work, but it would irretrievably scupper his plans for the future. He knew her too well to imagine otherwise.
Sometimes, one had to take risks.
So…rising, he walked to her, took her hand, drew her to her feet. He called Cassius and Brutus, and they went out to walk the ramparts and enjoy the present, until the next twist in the tale.
Instinct told him that twist was coming, but when and how…
As they strolled, they talked, circling the possibility of somehow taking charge of the game—of setting some scheme in train that would allow them to make the running, rather than being, as they had been to date, forever in the position of reacting to the murderer’s moves. Nothing useful suggested itself. They still knew too little of what was afoot.
The sun slid behind clouds and they went in to tea. Afterward, they headed for the stables.
This time, with neither a shared word or glance, the instant they passed out of the park, they turned their horses’ heads to the northwest. They cantered to the old stone bridge spanning the river not far from the castle ruins. Crossing it, they headed up the long finger of escarpment leading southeast; once atop it, they flew.
The route by the castle bridge was the longest straight ride between the Abbey and Wallingham Hall, but was more difficult, more demanding than the south and east route they normally took; it demanded complete concentration, absolute absorption in the moment, at least at the pace they rode it.
The unrelenting thunder of their horses’ hooves rose and engulfed them, sank into them, resonated through them. The compulsive tattoo beat through their blood, surged through their veins.
Instinct, frustation and sheer exhilaration combined into an explosive mix. Rampant desire provided the spark; all it took was one shared glance as they slowed to descend to the Hall to light their fuse and propel them into a state of mindless need.
Charles changed course, knew she would follow. Instead of heading down to the flat and around to the stables, they angled down to the bank on which the folly stood.
They pulled up in a welter by the folly. Their feet hit the ground, he seized both sets of reins, tied them to the balustrade, then grabbed her hand, dragged her up the folly steps and through the door into the inner room.
If she hadn’t been equally as urgent as he, Penny would have protested, but his strides were longer, being dragged was faster, and…she couldn’t wait.
She couldn’t breathe as he strode past the chaise, then whirled her, twirled her so her back was to the rear wall of the folly, then he lifted his hands, clamped them about her face, and kissed her.
To within an inch of her life.
Her back hit the rear wall; she felt grateful for the support. She slid her arms up, twining them about his neck, stretching against him, frantically pressing to him as he moved deliberately into her; she returned every pressure, suggestively undulating against him in blatant invitation.
His hands left her face and raced, flagrantly possessive, over her velvet-clad body, over her breasts, her waist, her hips. He gripped her bottom, kneaded briefly, then released her and dragged up the front of her habit. She couldn’t get her arms down to help; instead, she encouraged him in every other way, taunting him through their kiss, nipping his lower lip, gasping, her head falling back against the wall as he lifted her, his large hands now gripping bare skin as he braced her against the wall—and pressed in.
Suddenly, she was teetering on a sensual brink. Then he thrust, hard, deep, and she shattered. Convulsed around him, sobbed her pleasure.
He covered her mouth with his, and drove her further.
Into the most glorious mind-numbing pleasure she’d yet experienced. Into the hottest, tightest, most fiery furnace they’d yet to explore. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, her legs about his hips and clung. Between them, through every deep thrust, through every hungry, greedy grasping, ran an urgency, a thread that was close to desperation, yet colored by conviction, by the absolute assurance of ultimate satiation.
A satiation that ultimately enraptured them both. Caught them, took them, and poured through them. Soothed them.
When, panting, chests heaving, they finally regained sufficient control to lift their heads and meet the other’s eyes, they searched, then their lips started to curve. By the time he’d withdrawn from her and tumbled them both onto the chaise, they were laughing like children.
For long minutes, they simply lay there, exhausted yet pleasantly, even euphorically, so. Time passed, and neither felt any compulsion to move. She lay slumped on his chest, listening to his heart slow. With the fingers of one hand, he played with her hair, with the long strands that had come loose from her chignon either during the ride or later; his other hand lay possessively beneath her skirts, curved over her naked hip.
She was aware to her bones of that intimate yet, she was sure, absentminded touch. His fingers drifted a little now and then, but she didn’t think he was thinking of anything. Any more than she was.
The moment itself was enough.
Eventually he sighed, and stirred. “I suppose we’d better go down. It must be time to dress for dinner.” With a reluctance that showed, he drew down her skirts, sat her up, then rearranged his clothes.
She tweaked her blouse and jacket back into place, decided the wild ride would excuse her hair. She stood, and her knees gave way.
He’d been watching; he grasped her hips, steadied her, then stood and offered his arm. Met her gaze as she took it. “You obviously need more practice.”
Another laugh bubbled up. “I’ll think about it.”
She thought she’d had the last word, but as he handed her down the steps, he murmured, “Do.”
Wicked promise and arrogant warning combined.
They remounted and ambled down and around into the stable yard. Canter came himself, reporting that there’d been no action through the day.
Much he knew. She refused to meet Charles’s eyes as he lifted her down. Taking his arm, they strolled, not as quickly as usual, into the house.
He saw her to her room, then continued down the corridor to his.
Still pleasantly aglow, she sighed, and rang for Ellie. Sitting on her dressing stool, she unpinned her hair, brushed it, then slowly, wits drifting, re-coiled it.
Only then did she realize Ellie hadn’t appeared.
That was such a strange occurrence, she rose and went to the door. Opening it, she headed for the back stairs. Reaching the landing, she heard voices; peering over the balustrade, she saw Figgs patting Ellie’s shoulder firmly, but the look on Figgs’s face was distracted.
“I know, ma’am.” Ellie hiccupped. “I’ll go right up.”
Ellie had obviously been crying.
“What’s the matter?” Penny went quickly down the stairs. “Is something wrong?”
Figgs and Ellie straightened; they exchanged glances, then Figgs faced Penny as she stepped onto the tiled floor. “It’s Mary, my lady. The parlor tweeny. She went out last evening—I thought it was for a walk to meet Tom Biggs down by the stable, but Tom didn’t see her, and Ellie thinks Mary went to meet some other new fellow.”
“And?” Penny prompted when Figgs fell silent.
“Mary didn’t come home last night. We’ve been expecting her any hour, but then we thought maybe one of her brothers had come and met her while she was out and called her urgently home, or something of the sort.” Figgs sighed, and met Penny’s eyes. “We sent a lad and he’s just got back—Mary’s family hasn’t seen her either, not since her last day off.”
A cold, black vise closed about Penny’s stomach. “No one’s seen her since she left last night?”
“No, my lady. And she’s not the sort to do such a thing—not at all. And her things are still here?
??she didn’t take anything with her.”
Penny looked at Ellie, woebegone and clearly imagining the worst. “Did Mary say anything about this man she went to meet?”
“Not particular, m’lady. Just that he was tall and ’and-some, and not in the usual way of things.”
Figgs drew in a breath. “We was wondering, my lady, Norris and me, whether we should tell his lordship?”
Nicholas wouldn’t have the first idea what to do, but it was now his house, or at least his father’s. Penny nodded. “Yes, tell Lord Arbry.” Lips firming, she turned back to the stairs. “And I’ll tell Lord Charles.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Figgs’s relief rang clearly. “Do you want Ellie to attend you now, ma’am?”