Chapter 11
Ian awoke the next morning at yet another ungodly hour.
If he were an honorable man he would presume that it was a guilty conscience that had him out of bed and attired in a tobacco brown coat and buff breeches at the break of dawn. After all, he had not only seduced a complete innocent and then insulted her by requesting that she become his mistress, he had compounded his dastardly deeds by deliberately playing upon her tender heart to keep her from fleeing to the safety of her home.
Thankfully, he had never been burdened with anything so troublesome as a conscience, and instead of guilt it was determination that urged him from the comforts of his bed and had him ringing for his valet.
He intended to make certain that Mercy Simpson understood that she would be remaining at Rosehill. No matter what underhanded tricks were necessary to keep her close at hand.
They had unfinished business.
A business that had left him hard and aching throughout the long, long night.
Of course, he did have less enticing business to attend to as well, he reminded himself with a faint sigh. Waiting until his valet finished tying the complicated knot in his cravat, he rose to his feet and regarded the servant who had been with him for the past five years.
Not that Reaver was a typical servant.
The son of a dockworker, Reaver possessed his father’s tall, brawny frame and barrel chest. His face was cut with square, clean lines and had no doubt been considered handsome before he had been slashed from his right ear to the edge of his mouth, leaving behind a gruesome scar that made grown men tremble. With his thick brown hair grown long enough to pull into a queue and his hard, black eyes, he appeared more a cutthroat than a valet.
Ian had encountered the man in one of the innumerable hells that he had frequented over the years. At the time, Reaver had been an employee of the owner, his intimidating demeanor and impressive bulk the only encouragement needed to ensure that all gambling debts were paid without a fuss.
On the night Ian had been in attendance, however, a wealthy young buck had brought with him several servants who took exception to Reaver’s attempt to halt the cowardly fool from slipping out a side window.
Ian could not say why he interfered. It was not as if he had a great sympathy for his fellow man. Especially not those who frequented gambling hells. Nor did he particularly have a sense of duty to rescue those in need.
Perhaps it was merely a sense of fair play that had led him to step into the melee and even the odds.
Whatever the cause, Ian had discovered Reaver was a man of fierce loyalty, and once he had healed, he had arrived upon Ian’s doorstep with an unwavering refusal to be turned away. In the end it had been easier to allow him to remain than to try and run him off.
Rather a stroke of fortune, Ian had to admit. Although Reaver was merely a passable valet, he possessed many other talents that had proven invaluable over the years. Not the least of which was standing behind Ian’s chair as he gambled. It was nothing less than amazing at how few gentlemen were willing to attempt to cheat with Reaver’s gimlet eye upon them.
And, of course, there was his willingness to perform whatever task, no matter how strange, without complaint.
That made him a servant beyond price.
Ian waited until the man had cleaned and tucked away the shaving kit (he made a habit of never discussing any subject while his companion held a sharp object near his throat) before revealing his decision.
“Reaver, I need you to return to London.”
The large man folded his arms over his chest. “A collection?”
“Not on this occasion. It is more of a”—Ian smiled wryly—“Treasure hunt.”
The man grunted, familiar enough with his unpredictable employer to reveal nothing more than a resigned curiosity.
“And what is this treasure?”
“A gentleman by the name of Summerville.” Ian leaned against the highly polished armoire and straightened the cuff of his jacket. “I fear I do not know much more than that.”
“Just Summerville?”
“Yes.”
“He lives in London?”
Ian grimaced. “I believe so, although I am not entirely certain.”
Reaver furrowed his heavy brow, his expression growing exasperated. Hardly surprising. He had just been given the task of searching for a very small needle in a very large haystack.
“Is he a nob?”
“It could be, although it is possible that he is the son of a wealthy merchant.”
Reaver shoved his fingers through his hair. “That is not much to go on.”
“Which is why I must send you, as much as I would prefer you to remain in Surrey. I cannot risk undue attention to my interest in Summerville.” Ian smiled. “And besides, there is not a man in all of England you cannot track down, Reaver. You are like a damnable bloodhound when you are on the scent of prey.”
Reaver grunted at the blatant challenge. “What do you want of him if he don’t be owing you money?”
Ian pushed from the armoire to cross toward the window, peering absently toward the distant lake. Reaver was well aware of Ian’s purpose in coming to Surrey, of course. There was simply no keeping secrets from the man.
“I believe he might have a connection to my father’s past. It could very well be he possesses knowledge of the secret I am searching for.”
“Ah.” Comprehension flashed through the dark eyes. “Do you want me to haul him here once I’ve found him?”
“No. Just send word when you have tracked him down.”
“There might be more than one, you know. How do I know which you are wanting?”
Ian shrugged, his gaze shifting to the stables. He had already quizzed the upstairs maid to ensure that Mercy had not fled during the night, but he had no intention of lowering his guard. Not until he had the opportunity to demand her promise she would not leave.
“This particular Summerville will be of an age with my father and attended Eton as a lad. If I can discover more I will send word to you in London.”
There was another grunt as Reaver considered his latest task, his expression revealing that he was not entirely happy to be sent back to London. The valet might grouse at the lack of entertainment to be found at Rosehill, but he was never happy to be parted from his employer. The ridiculous man had managed to convince himself that Ian was incapable of surviving without him.
“And who will be taking care of you?” he demanded.
Ian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. At least the man had not yet taken to holding his hand when they crossed the road.
“My father possesses a small army of servants. I am certain that at least one can be spared to stand in as my valet.”
The dangerous features became downright frightening as Reaver scowled. “I do not mean someone to starch your cravats and brush your coat. Any fool could tend to those things. Who is to keep an eye upon your back?”
Ian deliberately glanced toward the window that revealed nothing more threatening than a distant cow.
“I should think that my back will be safe enough for the next few days. Rosehill has always been a frigid, unwelcoming sort of place, but it is rarely lethal.”
“Oh aye. And when you grow bored and search out a game of chance?” Reaver growled.
Ian could not hold back his bark of laughter. “Perhaps you should pay better attention, my friend. The only games to be played in this neighborhood are charades and spillikin. Neither of which are renowned for leading to bloodshed.”
“Bah. I know you better than you know yourself, Breckford. A fortnight ago you managed to turn a respectable vicarage into a den of iniquity.”
“Ah, yes.” Ian smiled as he recalled the unexpected windfall he had collected while waiting for Fredrick’s wedding in Wessex. “I believe I won a beautiful pair of candlesticks that had once graced the altar of some poor church.”
“And nearly had your throat slit by the desperate curate,” Reaver was swift to remind him. “Do you believe that a half-witted farmer is any less inclined to commit murder after losing his fortune?”
Ian merely smiled. That restless itch that so often led him into the gaming hells or plunging into some reckless dare or another was oddly absent since he had stumbled across a beautiful wood sprite standing in the midst of a meadow.
“Do you know, Reaver, for the first time in a very long time, the last thing I fear is growing bored,” he murmured, a tingle of anticipation inching down his spine. “Indeed, I haven’t the least interest in searching out the local bumpkins to empty their pockets.”
Reaver frowned. “Are you sickly?”
“More likely I have gone completely mad,” Ian admitted without a hint of regret.
“I see.”
“I am deeply relieved that one of us does.”
Ignoring Ian’s dry tone, Reaver shook his head in a gesture of profound disappointment.
“When a man loses interest in important matters, it can only be because a woman is involved. Miss Simpson, eh?”
Ian did not bother to deny the truth. Why should he? He was not ashamed of his fascination for the golden-haired beauty.
“She has proven to be an unexpected distraction.”
“A female is only a distraction if you allow her to be.”
Ian regarded his companion with a flare of bemusement. He had known that Reaver preferred a quick tumble with a whore to stepping out with a respectable lass; still, there was an odd edge to his voice that hinted at darker emotions.
“How terribly pragmatic you are, Reaver. Have you never been struck by a passion so overwhelming that everything else fades in comparison?”
“Aye.” Without warning, the man lifted a hand to touch the scar that disfigured his lower cheek. “And I carry the mark to prove it.”
“A woman sliced your face?” Ian did not have to feign his surprise. He had never directly demanded an explanation for the long-healed wound, but he had never considered the possibility that the tale included a female. “Good God, for all these years I had presumed that you had been set upon by murderous footpads, or even taken prisoner by a crew of pirates and tortured for months on end. Now I discover you were bested by no more than an angry chit. I can not reveal the depths of my disappointment.”
“I would trust a band of pirates to a wench,” Reaver muttered, his voice bitter. “At least they are honest in their thieving.”
Ian studied his companion a long moment. “So why would a woman desire to slash your face? Did she catch you in bed with another?”
Reaver stiffened. “I caught her pocketing my mother’s pearl necklace. My father saved for ten bloody years to buy that bauble, and I wasn’t about to allow the bitch to hock it for a few quid.”
Ian grimaced. “A nasty bit of goods.”
“A typical woman.”
“No.” Ian shook his head. It was not that he did not believe a woman could steal a family heirloom and then slice the face of a man attempting to halt her. Hell, he’d known a dozen women who would invite him to their beds even as their fingers were dipping into his pocket. A hard, ruthless life tended to breed hard, ruthless people. But he knew beyond a doubt that his sweet wood sprite was a woman of rare beauty, both inside and out. “Mercy Simpson is not like other females.”
Reaver threw his hands in the air. “Bloody hell, those are the words of doom.”
“Doom?”
“Whenever a man begins muttering those words, it means he is about to make an ass of himself.” Reaver heaved a sigh of despair. “I never thought to hear them from your lips. A sad day, I must say.”
Ian’s lips twitched at the man’s morose reaction. “Thankfully you will be in London, Reaver, so if I do happen to make an ass of myself you shall be spared the embarrassment of witnessing my downfall.”
“Thank God.”
Reaching beneath his jacket, Ian pulled out a leather bag and handed it to his servant.
“There should be enough money for your journey as well as any necessary inducement for those reluctant to share information.”
Reaver scowled as he tucked the bag beneath his jacket. “I don’t need coin to get information I desire.”
“I am well aware of your talents, Reaver. However, on this occasion I would prefer you grease the wheels with money rather than your fists,” Ian said, his expression firm.
“Why?”
“Because a discrete bribe causes far less notice than bloody carnage in the streets of London. I hope to avoid any unnecessary interest, if you will recall.”
Reaver headed toward the door, his disappointment in being denied a good thrashing obvious in the resigned set of his shoulders.
“Waste of good blunt, if you ask me.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Thankfully, I am not asking you. Return here the moment you have information.”
“ Aye.”
“And Reaver.”
The man paused at the door, glancing impatiently over his shoulder. “What?”
“Take care.” Ian’s expression was somber. He would have his tongue cut out before admitting it, but he had grown annoyingly fond of the man. “I do not believe there is any danger, but I should not wish to have to train another valet. It is always such a tedious business.”
Reaver’s smile returned as he offered Ian a parting wink. “I’m not the one playing with fire, Breckford.”
Waiting until the door had closed behind his valet, Ian sucked in a deep breath and smoothed his hands down his tailored jacket.
He should be laughing at the ridiculous warning. He was a master of playing with fire. God knew he had been doing it most of his life. He always knew exactly how far to press his luck without getting burned.
It was not amusement, however, that sent a small shiver down his spine.
No, that was pure, unmistakable foreboding.
With a shake of his head at his stupid imaginings, Ian forced himself to leave his rooms and make his way through the mansion. He had enough concerns to keep him occupied without brooding on vague imaginings.
He had nearly reached the back parlor when his steps slowed at the sound of his aunt’s bright chatter and Mercy’s low, husky laugh that tumbled through the air. It was not the women’s obvious pleasure in one another’s company that caught him off guard. He was well aware that they had become fast friends in their short time together. It was, after all, how he had managed to manipulate Mercy into remaining at Rosehill.
Instead, he was struck by the realization that the gold-veined marble suddenly did not seem quite so cold, nor the looming Grecian statues so intimidating. Even the rich velvet curtains glowed with a ruby warmth in the morning sunlight.
It was as if Mercy’s presence at Rosehill was slowly melting the ice that had held the estate in its grip for so long.
Astonishing.
Continuing forward, Ian stepped into the charming breakfast room and regarded the two women seated at the table.
His aunt was as elegant as ever in her green and gold striped gown with her hair pulled into a simple knot at her nape. It was Mercy, though, that caught and held his attention.
His breath was wrenched from his lungs as he caught sight of her drenched in a golden ray of sunshine.
Christ, she truly was a wood sprite.
There could be no other explanation for her captivating beauty.
Certainly it could not be due to the simple blue gown that would have been suitable for a nun, or the golden hair that was pulled into a tight braid. It was not even in the perfect features that glowed a warm ivory.
He had known far too many beautiful women to be so easily dazzled.
No, it could only be magic.
Abruptly aware that both women were regarding him with varying degrees of welcome, Ian performed a shallow bow.
“Good morning, ladies.”
“Oh, Ian, what a lovely coincidence,” Ella murmured, her eyes warming at his entrance. “I do hope you have no plans for the day?”
Ian slowly smiled, not at all put out by the knowledge his aunt was clearly determined to maneuver him into assisting with some tedious task or other. Instead, his gaze was trained on Mercy’s wary expression.
“Not at all, Aunt Ella. I am at your complete disposal.”
“Excellent.” Ella clapped her hands together. “I have requested that Mercy search the attics for the trunk of good linen tablecloths and napkins that I had stored up there some years ago. They will need to be aired and pressed before the luncheon.”
“The attics, eh?” Ian’s smile widened. An entire morning alone with Mercy? Perfect.
Ella rose to her feet, seemingly oblivious to Mercy’s stiff dismay.
“Unfortunately, I cannot recall precisely which trunk was used, so I fear it may be a tedious chore searching through the lot,” the older woman murmured.
“How could any time spent in the company of Miss Simpson ever be considered tedious?” he questioned smoothly.
Ella smiled wryly. “Behave yourself, Ian, or you will be banished to mucking the stables.”
“It would not be the first occasion.” Ian placed his aunt’s hand on his arm as he escorted her to the door. “I seem to recall spending a great number of afternoons with a pitchfork in hand.”
“Much good it did,” Mercy muttered from behind, her voice pitched so low that Ian suspected she had never intended for him to overhear.
Hiding his sudden smile, Ian paused at the door and regarded his aunt with a lift of his brow. “Where are you off to, my dear?”
“I must travel to the vicarage.”
“At this hour?”
“Mrs. Delford has kindly offered to assist with the summer festival, and we must begin our planning.” The older woman offered a vague smile, her thoughts already upon her next charity affair. “I shall see you both for luncheon.”
Ian waited until his aunt had disappeared down the long corridor before turning to prop his shoulder against the door jam, his gaze running a hungry path over Mercy’s pale face.
“I must say that I am rather relieved to discover you sitting here eating your breakfast, my sweet.”
Rising to her feet, Mercy joined him at the door with a lift of her chin.
“I remained because of Ella, no other reason.”
“Whatever the cause, it saved me the effort of devoting my morning to hauling you back to Rosehill.”
She ignored the unmistakable warning in his words. Halting directly before the doorway, she regarded him with an air of impatience.
“If you will excuse me?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the attics.”
Straightening, Ian held out his arm. “Very well, I will join you.”
“There is no need.” With swift steps, she had pushed past him and was headed toward the back of the house. “I am perfectly capable of searching through the trunks, and I am certain you must have better things to do.”
With two long strides he was at her side, easily keeping pace with her brisk steps.
“I can think of at least one better thing to be doing, but I suspect that will have to wait until you are in a less”—he deliberately paused, waiting for the heat flood into her cheeks. He wasn’t disappointed—“Combative frame of mind.”
She frowned in disapproval. “Ian.”
“Yes, my sweet?”
Meeting his wicked gaze, she gave a resigned roll of her eyes. “You truly are impossible.”
“So I have been told.”
They traveled toward the servants’ staircase in silence, Ian content to savor the warm scent of vanilla that swirled through the air. Who knew just being near a woman could be so satisfying?
Christ, he was not even touching her.
Mounting the steep flight of steps until they at last reached the upper level of the mansion, Ian moved to step in front of Mercy before she could open the door.
“Perhaps you should allow me to go first and battle the cobwebs that have no doubt gathered.”
Mercy paused, and then astonishingly she offered no more than a faint shrug.
“By all means.”
“There is to be no argument?”
“I detest spiders.”
“Wait here,” he warned, tugging open the door and withdrawing his handkerchief to knock down the most tenacious webs. A Herculean task, he swiftly discovered, battling a path toward the landing. Once there, he grimaced. As a small lad he had often played among the various trunks and abandoned furniture that consumed a lion’s share of the attics. He did not recall the dust being quite so thick, or the sloped ceiling quite so low. “Good God, I had forgotten how cramped it was up here. It all looked a great deal larger when I was a child,” he muttered.
“Perhaps because you took up much less space in those days,” Mercy pointed out, lingering at the bottom of the steps.
“Perhaps.” Ian glanced over his shoulder. “I believe I have frightened off the most vicious of the spiders. There is nothing I can do, however, for the dust.”
She climbed the stairs, indifferent to the dirt marring the hem of her skirt as she edged past his large form.
“I knew the rumors of your near mythical ability to satisfy a woman’s deepest fantasy must be exaggerated,” she taunted, her low, erotic voice sending a jolt of pure lust through his groin.
He was moving before he was even aware of his intentions, pressing her against the tall armoire that had been condemned to the attics at least a century before.
“Are you implying that you doubt my ability to please a lady?” he demanded, ignoring the cloud of dust that floated about them. Hell, the ceiling could tumble on his head and he would be impervious.
The only thing that mattered was the feel of her delicate shoulders beneath his fingers and the womanly heat that was searing through his clothing.
He had ached to touch her for hours.
Belatedly realizing the dangers of teasing him, Mercy sucked in a sharp breath.
“Ian.”
Ian slowly smiled, his gaze running a hot path down the length of her stiff body.
“Perhaps you would care to make a little wager?”
“A wager?”
“I bet that if you allow me into your bed, I can satisfy each and every one of your fantasies.”
“And what do I win if you fail?”
“I will scour every bookstore in London for books concerning the Byzantine era and personally deliver them to your doorstep.”
“Hardly an arduous task.”
He nearly choked on her ridiculous words. He was still recovering from his previous visit to the musty bookshop.
“Perhaps not for a scholar, but I can assure you that it would be nothing less than torture for a frivolous gentleman such as myself.” He deliberately shifted so his body brushed against hers. A primitive flare of satisfaction raced through him at her unmistakable tremor. “So, do we have a wager?”
Her eyes briefly darkened with an uncontrollable awareness. Then, with a grim effort, she was pressing her hands against his chest in denial.
“Do not be absurd. I would never allow a man into my bed for a wager.”
Ian refused to budge. His untimely proposal of making her his mistress had not destroyed her desire for him.
That was all he needed to know.
“So, you fear that I would win,” he drawled, his words a direct challenge. “Very wise.”