Chapter Nine
Strathairn’s new partner was Miles Irvine. Irvine had been a sergeant in Wellington’s army, wounded at the battle of Waterloo. A farmer’s son, Irvine chose not to till the soil after the war ended. He was a stocky man, his shoulders broad, his muscular legs too short for his body. He seemed levelheaded and strong. Strathairn had taken to him immediately.
Aware of how little time he had before Parnham called a halt to this investigation, Strathairn and Irvine spent some hours at the docks, conversing with sailors off the boats and barges. An old salt knew of a dockworker who had earned a large amount of blunt from a stranger to the docks. The sailor sucked a quid of tobacco in his cheek as he declared he hadn’t set eyes on the man but had heard a French accent when he passed by the alley where they talked.
The dockworker, Joe Dawes, hadn’t shown up for work the next day nor had he been seen since.
“Not surprising when someone greases your fist,” the old salt said, spitting tobacco onto the ground. “Odd that he hasn’t been to his usual watering hole though. He’s an elbow-crooker, Joe. I expected him to be straight round to the bawdy house, too.”
“Where does this Dawes live?”
“His room is a few blocks from here,” the sailor said. “In Falmouth Lane.”
Such deals on the docks were not uncommon. Tomorrow, Strathairn would seek Dawes out, but he despaired that this week’s investigation would come to naught. It became increasingly likely that Nesbit’s death would be buried under a pile of paperwork and forgotten.
He arrived home after several ales with Irvine. He’d missed dinner and considered himself not exactly cup shot, but not entirely sober either. Perhaps he would be spared the bad dreams tonight.
After his valet pulled off his boots, he dismissed him and the rest of the servants, then wandered the library in his stocking feet with a banyan over his shirt and breeches, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Outside, wind driven rain lashed the windowpane.
He heard a carriage stop outside, then a light rap of the knocker. “What the deuce?” The grandfather clock had just chimed one o’clock. He snatched up his swordstick from the table in the front hall and strode over the cold marble floors to open the door.
A very damp lady stood on the doorstep, the hood of her crimson velvet cape pulled over her face. She stepped up to the doorway and threw back the hood.
Soft lamplight fell on a delicate oval face.
“Sibella!”
“I had to come,” she said breathlessly.
Strathairn looked past her into the empty street. “Who brought you?”
“No one. I came alone.”
“You’re soaked through.” He took her arm and pulled her inside, her familiar flowery scent making his pulse race.
She wiped a lock of damp hair from her forehead and gazed up at him, eyes wide with anxiety. “I had to see you.”
“Come into the library.”
The remains of the fire smoldered in the grate. He mustn’t touch her. “Take off your cloak and I’ll dry it by the fire.” His raging blood seemed hotter than the embers he bent to stir. He threw on more coal. “Couldn’t this have waited until the ball?” he said, straightening. “If you were seen…”
“No one saw me.” She untied the strings of her cape and threw it off, revealing damp white muslin decorated with flowers embroidered in silver thread, which now looked almost transparent. He bit down on a gasp as his body tightened. She was soaked through to her chemise. The cloth clung to the jutting fullness of her young bosom and lovingly framed the gentle curve at the base of her stomach. Completely unaware, she clutched her hands. “I’ve been to a soirée with Mama this evening.”
“I must get you back before you’re missed.” He averted his gaze, strain evident in his voice. “Come close to the fire. You must be chilled.”
“I’m a bit damp, that’s all. It’s not such a cold night,” she said, but she moved closer to the flames.
He allowed himself a brief glimpse of a shapely derrière. “You’re shaking.”
She turned to face him. “I suppose I’m nervous. This is not something I do often, you understand. But you have not appeared at any of the social events I’ve been to lately. And I had to talk to you.”
He hung her cloak over a chair. “You should not be here.” Aware the drink weakened his resolve, he tried not to look at her breasts. He drew a wing chair closer to the fire. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“Thank you.”
Sibella arranged her dress over her legs. She took the crystal tumbler of brandy he offered her and drank thirstily, a flush spreading across her pale cheeks.
John polished off the last few mouthfuls of his drink but resisted pouring another, already fighting to keep a cool head. He drew up a chair facing her. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve risked coming here in the dead of night?”
She clutched the glass with both hands. “It’s Vaughn. He’s disappeared. His manservant says he hasn’t slept in his bed for almost three weeks. Edward and Chaloner can’t find him. I’m afraid Mama will find out.”
“You have no idea where he might be?” A sexual encounter, no doubt. Desire was almost impossible to resist at one-and-twenty. Still difficult at thirty. “Might he have fallen in love?”
He watched her take another deep swallow, patently aware of the undercurrent, so much unsaid between them. “I don’t think so. I suspect it’s a debt of honor. He signed a wager after losing money at Watier’s Club in Piccadilly. Edward says it’s a wild place for gambling. Old estates have changed ownership there.”
“Tavern games are one thing, but clubs like Watier’s, where the rich gamble enormous sums at high play, are very dangerous for a young buck. The club will soon close as many of its members are now in Dun territory. Perhaps Vaughn is hiding away, too ashamed to appear before the family.”
Sibella seized on the notion eagerly. “Chaloner refused to bail him out this time. He wished Vaughn to learn his lesson.”
“Might he have gone to the money lenders?”
“Edward believes so.”
“And they’ve got their hooks into him, no doubt.”
“I fear so.”
“I’m going to fetch you a towel. Stay there by the fire.”
He wrestled his emotions under control while grabbing a towel from the washstand. When he returned, Sibella had finished her drink and roamed the library, clasping her hands in front of her.
He offered her the towel, then turned his back as she dried her alluring décolletage.
“Lady Fortescue tells me some man is stationed outside her house. He follows the nurse when she takes her baby for a walk. It’s odd, don’t you think?”
“London is a dangerous place.”
“She suggested you and the baron conspired in some matter. Is that true?”
“We’ve been friends for years. You know that.”
She sat and arranged her damp skirts about her, dimpling at him. “May I have another brandy?”
She had no idea how seductive she was. “Is that a good idea?”
“Please.”
“It’s a lot stronger than Madeira.”
“You know I hate Madeira.” She lowered her delicate brows in a scathing look.
He grinned and moved to the drinks table. “I shall carry you home over my shoulder when you’re in your cups. Discreetly, of course.”
He splashed amber liquid into the glass from the crystal decanter while dismissing the temptation to keep her here for the night. Ridiculous of course. He smiled as Chaloner’s outraged face swam in front of him.
She took the glass from him. “What makes you smile?”
“How your brother would react if he knew you were here. Sip it.” With a defiant glance, she downed the drink, coughed, and screwed up her nose, her hand at her throat.
He grinned and shook his head. “Why didn’t you ask for Coombe’s help to find Vaughn?”
“He’s away on business in Bristol, and anyway, what could he do?” She leaned forward, gathering up tendrils of hair escaping down her neck. Such a tender sight, he drew breath. “You are so resourceful that I trust you can find him, John.”
He tried to ignore how his name sounded on her tongue, intimate, inviting. “Business? I gather Coombe is fairly flush in the pocket?”
“It appears so. He’s heir to an earldom.” She fiddled with another stray curl and tucked it behind her ear, revealing a sapphire and diamond earring. “You have the means to find Vaughn at your fingertips.”
“Have I?”
“Don’t fudge. You can ask other spies to look for him, can you not?”
He shook his head at her. “I believe you think there’s a spy around every corner.”
“It’s why you won’t marry me, isn’t it?” She gasped and placed a hand to her breast. “I may be a little drunk.”
He grinned despite himself. This was so unlike the Sibella he knew. “I did warn you to go easy with spirits. Shall I wake a servant to make you coffee?”
“No, please don’t. I’ll be all right.”
He sat and clutched his hands between his knees to keep from reaching out to her. “I’m not a fit partner in life for you. You need to understand that.”
She raised her chin. “I’m not here to beg you. I’m concerned for my brother.”
“I wish I could make you understand,” he said, desperate to keep events on an even plane, so drawn to her in this moment that he could easily throw caution to the wind. “You are engaged to Coombe. I don’t poach on another man’s land,” he said, his voice sounding rough to his ears.
She uttered a derisive noise. “It’s you who doesn’t understand. You’re trying to rationalize something that can’t be.”
“Can’t be?” He struggled to make sense of Sibella’s tipsy thought processes.
She rose and came to perch on the arm of his chair.
“Sibella please…” His attempt to sound stern faded. He wanted to draw her down, laugh with her, make love to her.
“This feeling…we have for each other can’t be explained away,” she said. “It’s about a deep sense of knowing. It’s about emotions…and…senses.”
“Senses?” Strathairn’s body tightened as he allowed his gaze to wander over the flawless skin of her throat. Lustrous damp ringlets framed her face and her wealth of dark hair had begun to unravel from its artful arrangement. His fingers itched to free the silken locks, slide them through his fingers and breathe in their fragrance. Like an orchard in springtime.
She took his hand and rubbed it against her velvety cheek, making his blood drum in his ears. “It’s about touch and smell and…and want.” She lost her balance and tumbled into his lap, leaning against his chest with a gasp.
He lost his breath, his body clamoring to draw her close, to feel her under him. To pleasure her and feed his own urgent need. Instead, he stood abruptly with her soft, sweet-smelling body in his arms and placed her on her feet. “You’re playing with fire, Sibella,” he said, his gruff voice betraying him.
“Tell me why,” she said slowly, searching his eyes.
“Because I desire you. Very much.”
“You admit it then.”
“Any red-blooded male would, and many would take advantage. I won’t.”
She shook her head but said nothing.
He couldn’t tell her how much he needed her tonight. Needed her warmth to sooth the bone-chilling ache and emptiness he’d been experiencing. The temptation to seek a haven in her arms was almost more than he could bear. “You’ve had no experience of how cruel society can be. And neither are you the sort of woman to flaunt convention.”
“You accuse me of having been kept in cotton wool. I came here tonight, did I not?” The delicate pale skin of her inner wrist caught his eye as she tucked an errant wisp behind her ear. Even that small gesture made him gasp.
He hurried on, hating the ponderous way he sounded. He didn’t give a damn about any of it; he loved her like this, but he had to make her believe him. “Your concern for your brother has overwhelmed your reason. It has driven you to act recklessly. Out of character.”
“You have me all worked out, it seems,” she said with a sigh. “I may continue to surprise you, my lord.” She shook her head and turned to pick up her cape. “You will find Vaughn, won’t you?”
He took the cape from her and arranged it over her shoulders, hiding her tempting body from his gaze. “This is almost dry.” He dropped his hands. “You mustn’t worry. I’ll find your brother. I’m familiar with his favorite haunts.” The responding glimmer of hope in her eyes made him determined not to fail her.
“Thank you, John,” she said in a small, dignified voice. “Could you hail me a hackney, please?”
Her eyes were shadowed with hurt, making his heart swell. He stifled a groan. How could he let her go like this, believing he didn’t care? Without thought, the sensual curve of her hip lay enticing under his hand. He gazed deep into her eyes and drew her slowly to him until she rested snug in his embrace. With a sigh, she settled against his chest as he embraced her, enjoying how well she fitted. “You know it’s more than desire. I care for you,” he said against her hair. “I’m not going to deny it.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled against his silk banyan.
He reluctantly pushed her away. “Trust that I know best.”
“I shan’t ever ask anything of you again, have no fear,” she said in a tired voice. “But please find Vaughn.”
“I will. I promise.” It hadn’t hurt this much when they dug a ball out of his thigh.
A dangerous wicked longing diminished his resolve and attacked his carefully built defenses. He cupped her face and rubbed a thumb along her full bottom lip. He moaned her name as he trailed a row of kisses along her neck. Sibella’s soft body arched against him. What are you doing, you fool? His warnings turned to dust. He breathed in the delicious peach scent of her skin as if it was his last.
God help him, he took her mouth in a long, heated kiss.
*
Sibella’s heart banged when, with a sharp intake of breath, John’s mouth claimed hers. His hands swept down over her back, pulling her hard against him. Enveloped in new tastes and sensations, she caressed the nape of his neck and threaded her fingers through his thick hair. John had kissed her before, but not like this. Heat rippled under her skin. Her pulse raced, and she was lost to the overwhelming emotional pull of his body. His lips firm yet soft against hers while his strong hands stroked her lower back. She wrapped her arms around him as much to hold herself up as to draw him closer. She would allow him anything. An insatiable desire to know this man intimately, to have him know her, drove her on. She didn’t give a fig about what disgrace might come from it.
But enough of her wits remained to be sure that whatever happened between them tonight would end there. She would never use this as a means to force him to marry her. No marriage would survive that, and he meant too much to her to destroy the affection they had for each other.