CHAPTER THREE
It was a good thing Hadrian had waited until she set her tea dish down, for her hands shook, slopping a little tea over the edge. Lettice Raleigh was like a skittish filly.
But a dignified one. She pulled herself together and lifted one elegant shoulder in a supple, sensual movement that a man couldn’t help but feel in his groin. She wasn’t what he would call classically beautiful, but alluring in a siren sort of way—shiny chestnut hair and warm brown eyes, delightfully feminine curves, and lush, kissable lips—but he hadn’t anticipated this response. He certainly didn’t want it.
“Yours is the only reputation that will suffer,” she said. “Mine can’t get much worse.”
“My reputation can go hang.” Hadrian rose to shut the door. He felt her eyes on him, and by the time he returned, she had mopped up the spilt tea and shifted her chair slightly away from the table, as if she feared having to rise and leave in a hurry. “I apologize for not looking to your comfort earlier, but I feared my father’s wrath would fall on you rather than on me.”
“And now it won’t?”
He tried to form the right words, to think up something tactful and reassuring with which to open the discussion.
She glared at him. “Whatever you have to say, just get on with it.”
“There’s no good way to put this,” he said, “but first let me assure you that I’m nothing like my father.”
She raised one incredulous brow.
“I don’t form judgments based on gossip.” And yet he had done so to some extent, in that he’d expected to dislike her. “And if I do from time to time, I don’t act on them. I don’t expect you to care about my opinion one way or the other, but…”
“You’re right. I don’t care.”
“Very well, then. We both know what a stickler for propriety my father is. I don’t know why he invited you here, and nor do I care.” He paused, but she said nothing. If she knew what had prompted the invitation, she wasn’t about to say. “The thing is, he not only wants you to leave, but to leave in disgrace.”
“I beg your pardon?” She paled slightly, and the dismay in her voice cut into him.
“Ever since your arrival, he has asked me to assess your, er, behavior—hoping, I suppose, to find a reason to send you packing.”
She tightened her fingers around the tea dish but said nothing.
“Naturally, I found such an assignment distasteful, but there’s never any point in arguing with him. My mother wants you here, and therefore she shall have you. I wouldn’t have reported anything untoward even if it had happened.” He paused. “But I don’t expect you to believe that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wise of you.”
Hadrian didn’t appreciate being thought a liar and a sneak, but he couldn’t blame her. “My father is disappointed in my reports of your ladylike behavior. He is determined to prove that you are unworthy of being a guest at Staves.”
Her nose twitched as if at a bad odor. “By planting a footman in my bedchamber, perhaps?”
Surprised, he thought about it for a moment. “Not unless he is planning to dismiss that particular footman.”
Hadrian had now come to the point of discussing his own role during the coming days—and found that he couldn’t. She already thought little enough of him, and rightly so. He shouldn’t care but realized he did. He didn’t intend to flirt or entice or…or anything with her, so she need never know that his father had ordered him to do so.
“The long and the short of it,” he said, “is that there will be a number of male guests here for Christmas, and he hopes—no, I am almost certain he plans—to find you in a compromising situation with one of them.”
Now she went very pale. Regret surged within him at being the bearer of such news. “I hate to say this of my father, but sometimes his machinations are completely vile. I felt it to be my duty to warn you.”
She stood, white and faintly trembling. “Thank you. I shall pack up and leave immediately.”
He stood as well. “I didn’t mean that you should leave so soon, Miss Raleigh. I gather you find your research here worthwhile, and the guests won’t arrive until next week. Perhaps you could complete your reading within the next several days, or if not, you could spend a day or two listing what you have yet to read. I could—I should be happy to copy whatever interests you and send it by post.” What had prompted him to say that? He certainly hadn’t intended it. His surprise must have shown; her incredulity certainly did.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I shall be happy to shake the dust of Staves off my feet. I didn’t want to come in the first place.”
“Then why did you?”
~ * ~
A knock sounded on the door, thank God, because Lettice couldn’t answer that question truthfully, and Lord Hadrian might probe for an explanation. She couldn’t tell him the truth, but nor did she want to lie.
What a relief to have a solid reason to leave this hellish house. The Mistress of the Succubi was mistaken. Staying here would only make Lettice’s reputation worse.
The same footman entered, glanced furtively at the two of them standing on either side of the table, and with a relieved expression said, “A letter arrived for you in the post, Miss Raleigh.”
Lettice took the letter with a murmured word of thanks. She turned it over to look at the seal.
Damn! What could the mistress want now? Maybe she had belatedly realized the futility of sending Lettice to Staves Court. She broke the seal with a hopeful heart and glanced at the letter.
It wasn’t a reprieve. She felt Lord Hadrian’s interested eyes upon her and moved away to her desk to read it properly.
My dear Lettice, it said. Much as I hesitate to inconvenience you further, I hesitate even more to deny a request from my dearest friend. Code, of course, for the Master of the British Incubi—by all accounts a harsh and ruthless man.
By tomorrow’s post, your host will receive a letter asking that a gentleman by the name of Pilgrim be permitted to study in the archives at Staves. You are requested, if the question arises, to let him know that you have heard of the said Mr. Pilgrim and can vouch for his bona fides as an historian. You are also requested to give Mr. Pilgrim whatever assistance he requires.
She sank into her chair. So much for her hopes of leaving immediately. She must remain to vouch for this Mr. Pilgrim—if that was indeed his name, which she doubted. She also doubted that she would be asked, since no one valued her opinion. No, the crux of the matter was that she must stay at Staves Court long enough to assist him…but with what?
The war with France was finally over, but the man wouldn’t be sent here by the Master of the Incubi unless on a mission. Was one of the soon-to-arrive guests a traitor? Lettice didn’t want to be involved. No more missions, no more unmasking traitors, no more foul kisses and—
“Bad news, Miss Raleigh?”
She started. In her distress, she had forgotten about Lord Hadrian.
“Not at all.” She folded the letter with firm hands and shoved it into a drawer of her desk. There, she was already lying, and the incubus—for incubus Mr. Pilgrim doubtless would prove to be—hadn’t even arrived. She shivered.
Lord Hadrian took the rebuff calmly. “Come sit by the fire again.”
She did, and he poured her a fresh dish of tea. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll drive you up to London—assuming that’s where you wish to go?”
She struggled to keep her face devoid of expression. “I would have, but—but something has come up. I shall have to stay here a few more days at least, and then I shall be going elsewhere.” Somewhere far away so he wouldn’t offer to drive her. What a pity she couldn’t accept the ride, which would be much more comfortable than the mail coach, but a man didn’t offer to drive a woman to a destination two hours away unless he had an ulterior motive. “In the north, almost to Scotland.” Another pause. “To visit friends.”
“I see,” he said.
~ * ~
Hadrian didn’t see at all, but he wanted to—curiosity being his besetting sin. Clearly, the letter had distressed Miss Raleigh. He sensed that she’d been improvising with her talk of going north, but perhaps she’d just been distracted.
Or perhaps she didn’t want him driving her to London. Perhaps she thought he had designs on her, when it was just the opposite. He intended to deliver her to wherever she wished to go and remain in London, never return to Staves while his father still lived. His departure would distress his mother. The loss of Val had caused her such misery that Hadrian had remained within the family for her sake, but he’d never before been asked to do anything utterly unprincipled and vile. He not only couldn’t reconcile it with his conscience to mistreat Miss Raleigh—or any other woman, for that matter–but nor could he continue to pretend to respect his father.
He couldn’t leave yet, because he had to stay to protect Miss Raleigh. But in order to remain as long as she did, he would have to appear to obey his father—a tricky proposition.
Or maybe…an immensely satisfactory notion descended upon him. Since he had already decided to leave, why not enjoy the process?
“Very well,” he said. “In the meantime, consider me your most obedient servant. I shall do my best to shield you from my father’s unpleasantness.”
“Thank you, you’re most kind.” This time she sounded as if she meant it.
He still didn’t know why she had come to Staves in the first place. Would she have answered his question if the letter hadn’t arrived?
Which brought him to another subject of inquiry—the reason his father had agreed to have Miss Raleigh here. Might one of his enemies be holding something over his head—a family secret, perhaps, which Father didn’t want revealed? An enemy who also happened to encourage Miss Raleigh’s interest in herbal remedies?
It seemed far-fetched. There was plenty of impropriety in the history of the noble Oakenhursts, as Hadrian had discovered in the archives. Still, he hadn’t found anything sufficiently recent or dreadful to force the marquis to invite an abandoned woman to the Court. Perhaps that letter would provide a clue.
It would be grossly improper for him to read that letter. Therefore, he shouldn’t do it.
And yet she seemed distressed, even alarmed, and the more he thought about it, the more his protective instincts rose to the fore. He pondered his motives, but concern for her overrode his scruples. She need never know he had invaded her privacy.
He moved to the far side of the room and busied himself with organizing some correspondence from the time of Charles II. Meanwhile, Miss Raleigh fidgeted, turned the pages of a tattered cookery book that had belonged to his grandmother’s housekeeper, and drank her tea. He poured her another dish. She thanked him and drank that, too. He poured her the last of the pot, with an apology that it wasn’t as hot anymore. She drank that as well.
Surely, after drinking all that tea, she would have to use the necessary soon. Patiently, he continued to sort through centuries-old correspondence.
At last, Miss Raleigh stood and left the room. In two seconds flat, Hadrian reached her desk. He opened the drawer, unfolded the letter, and read it. And read it again.
How strange—she was being asked to vouch for someone she didn’t know. And to assist him…but with what?
Even more bizarre, the letter was unsigned.
He was about to refold it when he noticed a faint pencil sketch at the bottom right hand corner of the page. Was that a finger with a string tied around it, such as one would use as a reminder of a particular task? Perhaps, but the finger was queerly shaped at the top, and the string had a rather long tail, like a lead.
Something stirred in his memory. It reminded him of a similar drawing he’d seen at some point, but where? In one of the various tomes and piles of paper and vellum he’d gone through, perhaps, but which? And what, if anything, did it mean?
Hadrian studied the sketch again.
No, it couldn’t be…but it was. Who would send Miss Lettice Raleigh a missive signed with a phallic symbol?
~ * ~
What a strange day, Lettice thought tiredly as she went upstairs to bed. Lord Hadrian had chosen to sit next to her at dinner—a definite improvement on her usual situation, stuck between Mr. Flinders, the chaplain, who was driven by a burning desire to save her sinful self, and Lady Staves’s utterly silent and disapproving companion, Miss Devoe.
Lord Hadrian had ousted the chaplain. “Go save someone else’s soul, Flinders,” he’d said. “Miss Raleigh and I wish to discuss medieval herb gardens.”
We do? she’d thought incredulously—he’d never shown a sign of interest in the subject before—but she would trade Lord Hadrian for the chaplain anytime. Even if his lordship had designs on her, he would soon learn they would come to nothing, and in the meantime it was a change to have someone interesting to talk to.
Lord Staves glowered at Lord Hadrian and suggested that Lettice appeared tired and might be happier with a tray in her bedchamber. She didn’t mistake this for solicitousness, of which the marquis possessed none. He merely didn’t want her speaking at length to his son—but in that case, why not simply order Lord Hadrian to change his seat in order to discuss the usual tedious family history?
Pride and, yes, she admitted it, bloody-mindedness forced her to stay whether Lord Staves liked it or not, and she had to admit she enjoyed Lord Hadrian’s cheerful presence beside her. Surprisingly, he knew quite a lot about the various categories of herbs, and he listened politely as if he valued what she had to say.
She had reached her bedchamber door when she remembered the letter. How could she have forgotten to destroy it? She’d been distracted all day, what with the letter’s contents and Lord Hadrian’s unexpected behavior, but that was no excuse.
She shivered, and not because of the evening chill. During the war, she would never have forgotten the all-important rule to destroy a communication as soon as it was read. She should have fed it to the fire immediately rather than stuffing it in a drawer.
Calm down, she told herself. The war was over, and no one was likely to pry in her desk drawer. She would retrieve the letter and burn it tomorrow.
No, she couldn’t leave it at that. She’d always obeyed the mistress, done her duty, and followed the rules. She wasn’t about to stop now. She turned, retracing her steps and turning down the dark passageway that led to the muniment room. She pushed open the door; as expected, no one was there. She set her candle down on the desk, opened the drawer, and took the letter out.
It wasn’t folded the same way as before. She was sure of it.
She had been distracted and not paying attention when she’d put it in the desk. Perhaps she’d forgotten how she had folded the letter.
She didn’t think so. During the war, she had developed a good memory for details. Then again, it was no longer wartime. She wasn’t on the alert anymore.
Well, then. Assuming she hadn’t forgotten, a servant might have been sent to snoop—but why? She had received other letters, and no one seemed to have touched those.
Alternatively, Lord Hadrian had read it during her visit to the necessary.
She would put her money on Lord Hadrian. She had interpreted his occasional glances as kindly concern, but it was far, far more likely that he was nothing but a sneak.
Either way, someone had read the letter. Lettice tried to set aside her chagrin that this cat couldn’t be stuffed back in the bag. Fortunately, no one reading it would realize Mr. Pilgrim was actually a spy. If she were asked who had written it, she had an answer ready. One always did. As for the drawing of the phallus… She shrugged. It didn’t matter. At best, no one would notice or realize what it was, and at worst, it would cause a little more scandal.
She stowed the letter in her reticule, picked up her candle, and retraced her steps down the passageway to the juncture of the two corridors, which was near the top of the stairs. The sound of voices brought her up short—male voices below in the Great Hall. She blew out her candle; if Lord Staves noticed her presence, he would demand to know where she’d been and why. She didn’t feel up to making excuses just now. She began to tiptoe toward her room.
“I shall do it my own way or not at all.” That was Lord Hadrian’s voice.
“Insolent puppy!” Needless to say, that was Lord Staves. “I should have known better than to give you such a simple task. Who gives a damn about herb gardens? You don’t know the first thing about seducing a woman.”
“It depends on the woman,” Lord Hadrian said mildly. “This one is skittish.”
Lord Staves huffed. “Skittish, my eye. Miss Raleigh is a trollop. If she doesn’t respond to you, it’s because you haven’t given her an opportunity to do so.”
Lettice halted, aghast.
“She’s responding just the way I hoped,” Lord Hadrian said. “She is now inclined to like me a little, which is the first step.”
“What does liking have to do with it? Just kiss the wench, damn it. Tweak her nipples—that’s what trollops like. Get her blood running. Prove that you’re a man, for the love of God.”
Lord Hadrian said nothing.
“But not by showing interest in her at dinner in front of everyone else. Which reminds me,” his father went on, “who gave you permission for a fire in the muniment room today?”
“I must thaw Miss Raleigh’s blood before I can get it running,” Lord Hadrian said.
Fury took hold of Lettice, but she remained utterly still.
After an unpleasant silence, Lord Staves said, “Very well, but don’t get caught with her. We’ll have no more scandal in the family, do you hear?”
Lettice’s training stood her in good stead, and she managed to creep silently away in the pitch dark, counting her steps until she reached her bedchamber. Once inside, she allowed rage to take hold. She seethed as she removed her clothing and cursed as she brushed the knots from her hair. She flung the brush across the room and came to a decision.
Damn Lord Hadrian. Everything he’d done today, all that professed kindness, was part and parcel of a plot of his father’s making.
She’d come here with the best of motives. She had done her best to redeem herself. Now she would play the game her own way.