A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 11

HE INTENDED TO DO PRECISELY THAT, WITH HER, AS SOON as possible. For now, however…he kissed her. For now it was enough that he had her in his arms, that regardless of all else he’d secured his second chance. He still had the twin mysteries of what had upset her years ago and why she’d turned her back on marriage to solve, but it was difficult to think when she was in his arms, her lips soft and pliant beneath his.

She held aloof at first, not resisting yet not actively participating, her attitude more in the nature of a sulk. He enjoyed teasing her from it, holding her lightly while tempting her with slow, sultry kisses, until she sighed, softened, and offered him her mouth.

Penny simply gave up-surrendered, resigned the battle to remain apart from him, impervious to the heat that licked around them, over them, through them-a battle she seemed forever doomed to lose. But she should have known, should have guessed that he wouldn’t simply set aside his desire. Sexual passion was an integral part of him, entrenched in every fiber of his being; she couldn’t imagine him without a sexual agenda. She shouldn’t have forgotten he would have one, no matter what else was afoot.

Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, leaned into him, met him boldly, and launched herself on his tide. Met his thrusting tongue, met his desire with her own, boldly engaged his expertise with her own brand of assurance. She’d be damned if she let him have things all his own way; she fanned the flames, let pleasure rekindle, rise and drag them both down, in, under.

It was pointless pretending she didn’t enjoy this, that with him she demonstrably could have a sexual agenda of her own. If she wasn’t going to be able to hold him off, then she’d take what she wanted, take all her starved senses wished from what he so readily offered. As he was determined to escort her to this particular banquet, then why not savor and enjoy? She had absolutely no doubt he would be a generous lover. He was an openly generous man. A good man…

She caught her thoughts, hauled them back from the brink. Not that way. She would enjoy all he brought her, but she wasn’t going to-didn’t need to-let her heart become involved. She might still love him, but she didn’t need to offer her heart to him, didn’t need to let him, however unwittingly, break it into pieces again.

What lay between them, what fired that compulsive, flaring heat, was physical attraction. Deep, intense, and abiding, tinged perhaps with shared memories, shared background, with long friendship and the ease that brought. But it was simply physical; she’d learned that thirteen years ago and wouldn’t forget; but he was here again now, wanting her as he always had, and-she pulled back from the kiss, gasping, letting her head fall back as his hands claimed her breasts, as his lips traced a line of fire down her throat…she’d been cold, physically cold, for a very long time.

Now she burned, and it was hotter, sweeter, infinitely more real than her memories. He set her alight in so many ways, with such deliciously pleasurable flames. She wallowed, distantly aware that he lifted her and sat on the chaise with her on his lap. They were supposed to be keeping watch, yet although with her senses wholly focused on the magic his hands and mouth wrought she couldn’t hear, she knew he could, and would, if there was anything beyond the cocoon of their world to react to.

She could safely leave the outside world to him and concentrate solely on theirs.

On the frankly amazing fact that she was lying once again in his arms, this time bared to her waist, that he’d managed to unlace her gown, open her bodice, ease her arms free, then untie her chemise and draw it down, all without raising a single qualm in her mind. Not a single impulse to protest.

From under lids grown heavy, she looked down, watched as with mouth, lips, and tongue he pandered to her senses, caressing her breasts in ways he hadn’t all those years ago.

She’d never permitted it, wouldn’t have even if he’d pressed; in those days, she’d had a very definite aversion to allowing him to see her naked. Doubtless a product of her conventional upbringing, that aversion had clearly withered with the years.

Now…there was little she could imagine might be so pleasurable as lying in his arms, in the shade, with the sun bright outside and birdsong drifting on a gentle breeze, feeling the brush of that breeze over her flushed and dampened skin, a counter to his heated caresses. She slid her fingers along his skull, arched lightly when he rasped her nipple, then relaxed as, with his mouth, he soothed the sudden ache.

She cupped his head and held him to her, very aware of the surrender and encouragement the action implied, quite sure he would recognize it, too. Quite sure. His fingers drew fiery patterns over her swollen breasts. The brush of his black hair against her white, now rosy and taut skin added another tactile sensation to the mix, one he orchestrated with a master’s touch.

With a devotion she hadn’t seen in him before. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t rushed; he was content to spend long minutes pleasuring her, but it wasn’t simply patience he’d learned. What she glimpsed in his face as he glanced briefly up, what she felt through every caress, was a different, novel reality. He took pleasure in pleasuring her, drew pleasure from all that she felt, that he made her feel.

That, too, was new, just as the joy welling inside her, the joy she found in this new facet of their interaction, was new, different, enticing.

He raised his head to view the effects of his ministrations. Sliding her hands across his chest, over his shirt, she found the buttons closing it.

Without shifting his gaze from her breasts, he closed one hand over hers. “No. Not this time.” He drew her hands away, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “This time is just for you.”

It was too hard to frown. “Charles-”

He raised her, kissed her.

In seconds she’d forgotten how to think. Forgotten there was any existence outside the fire he whirled her into, a giddy waltz of desire, of flaring passion, of sudden greedy need.

That need was hers, not his. He drew it up, evoked and provoked it, yet his desire seemed dependent on hers, subservient to hers. She didn’t understand, but couldn’t think enough to do anything other than cling to him, fingers sinking into steely muscles that flexed as he shifted her, as he drew her around…her bare breasts rode, lightly abrading, against his jacket; she suddenly wanted, burned, ached with an intensity she’d never felt before.

On a gasp, she broke from the kiss, realized he was lifting her skirts, that the frolicking breeze was sending teasing fingers dancing along her legs.

She wasn’t wearing stockings, just the slippers she wore in the house. His fingers touched, then his palm cruised along bare skin.

“Charles!” Protest or demand, she wasn’t sure. Her fingertips sank deeper; she clung even more desperately as her nerves tensed and flickered, as physical longing reared like a wave and rushed through her.

“Ssshh.” He touched even more boldly, his palm gliding in a long caress up one naked thigh. “Mon ange, let me show you heaven again.”

The words were so deep she could barely hear them, so imbued with a longing that was the counterpart of hers they sounded like a supplicant’s plea.

One she couldn’t refuse, didn’t have time to refuse, even had she had the strength. His lips returned to hers, but lightly, engaging yet not seizing her senses as he touched her curls, stroked, then nudged her thighs wider, slid his hand between, and cupped her.

She felt the intimate touch to her soul. He’d touched her there before, all those years ago, but only briefly. Not as he was touching her now.

Slowly. Exploring, caressing, stroking. Finding every pleasure point and coaxing it to life, then lavishing caresses upon it, and her.

She shuddered, and let him. Took all he gave and held to their kiss, her anchor in a world suddenly tilting. The road he now seemed so intent on taking, on showing her, was a great deal longer than before, more involving, with so much more to experience. So much more to feel. She gave herself over to it-to simply feeling, letting the delight well and wash through her, letting the pleasure rise and sweep her senses away.

At some level she missed his hunger, the driving need she was so used to in him. It hadn’t gone, but was veiled, there but held back so her own need could flower more strongly, so she could sense it more clearly as hers without the competing demands and distractions of his.

She was almost floating on a tide of pleasure, no longer clinging to their kiss, barely able to breathe, aware of him murmuring endearments, aware of her body as she never had been before, of how it rose to his practiced caresses, of how it wanted. And what it wanted.

His finger slid into her; what little breath she had tangled in her throat. Her impulse was to tense, but her body didn’t respond, then he stroked, and a languid wave of heat rose and washed through her.

Sheer unadulterated pleasure.

That built, and built, until she thought she would scream.

Charles watched her, watched passion claim her, watched her rise to each increasingly intimate caress. Knowingly he pushed her deeper, further into the fire, into the conflagration of molten desire and greedy, hungry need.

She was slick, hot, had been from the moment he’d touched her. She was also tight, so tight that working a second finger in alongside the first very nearly brought her, and him, undone.

He’d slammed a dungeon door on his lust, caged it so he could achieve what was needed-what he and she both needed so they could move quickly on-yet every gasping breath she took, every eager response her body made to his increasingly flagrant caresses, made it harder to concentrate, harder to remember that this moment, this time, had to be. That he had to, should, spin the moments out as far as he could, as far as her responsiveness allowed, the better to ready her, prepare her for the next stage, their next time.

She arched in his arms, a soft cry on her lips. His lungs seized, a vise cinching tight as he eased back, desperately tried to hold her back from the brink. Not yet. Just a little further…

He ached. The scalding heat of her sheath, the evidence of her desire, the incredibly soft swollen flesh he repeatedly caressed, her bare breasts, peaked and rosy, riding against his chest, all called to him, urged him, whispered darkly to him at some level that was deeper, more intimate, more fundamental than any other woman had ever touched.

Need was a spur embedded in his side, yet this was the way forward, the only way to successfully return to her bed, to join with her again, so he could rescript the past and set them on course for the future.

He’d been right in predicting she’d lie beneath him very soon.

There was a limit to all things, even his control, forged though it had been through thirteen long years. He was no longer naive enough to underestimate the effect she had on him, the sheer potent power of the need she and only she had always evoked in him.

It was awake now, very much alive, a beast prowling just beneath his skin, persuaded to reluctant patience only by the promise of a greater reward later. But not much later.

The wave within her rose again, higher still, and he couldn’t hold her back any longer. He sensed her fighting it, trying to stand against the onrushing tide, a sudden lick of distrust of the unknown flaring.

“Let go.” He breathed the words over her swollen lips. “There’s nothing to fear-let it take you, mon ange. Go.”

Her eyes, slivers of silver beneath her lashes, met his.

Between her thighs, he reached deeper, probed, pressed.

Her lids fell. And she flew.

To the stars. He watched as she arched in his arms, her nails sinking into his shoulders, her features blanking as completion claimed her. He felt the implosion of the tension he’d stoked in her, the final unraveling of her nerves, felt the powerful rippling contractions as release swept her.

He knew women’s bodies better than his own; he’d studied them more intensely. He knew enough to track the more subtle changes, the quivers of bright tension streaking down her nerves, the heat coalescing, then washing through her, spreading under her skin.

Easing back, he let her slump in his arms, cradled, safe. Let his eyes drink in the smoothing of her features, the bewitching curve that came to haunt her lips.

Glorious.

It was a moment he’d experienced many times, but the content, the sheer pleasure he took in seeing her slide from that convulsive peak into sweet oblivion, was both deeper and more evocative than he’d expected.

Satisfaction laced with that very real content gave him the strength to hold against the pain of a need more intense, more violent than he’d ever known, and simply hold her.

Minutes ticked by. He looked out over the lawns, over the drive, the forecourt, the approach to the stables. All basked peaceful and undisturbed in the morning sunshine. Out there, nothing had changed.

Within the folly, something had.

The step he’d taken, the course he’d embarked upon, was ineradicable, at least for him. In no way did he regret it; he was more committed to this venture than to anything in life.

Eventually, she stirred.

To his surprise, she didn’t try to cover herself, to screen her breasts from his gaze, or to remove his hand from beneath her rucked skirts where it lay proprietorially clasped over one bare hip. She didn’t even move to flick her skirts down over her long legs, but simply lay there, relaxed and at peace-and more dangerous to him than she’d ever been.

Her gaze traveled his face, then returned to his eyes.

“I don’t understand you-not anymore.”

He studied her in return, studied her stormy gray eyes that had already seen far more than any other. “You do. You know all you’ll ever need to-you just haven’t realized it yet.”

Truth again; blessedly, with her, it was their customary currency, the one in which they always dealt. She’d seen the change in him, experienced it, but hadn’t yet consciously understood. He wasn’t, however, in any hurry to explain; she would grasp the full picture soon enough, of that he had no doubt. Time enough, then, for her to know just how much power she wielded over him; there was no need for her to learn that now, while they were stuck in the middle of an investigation and a murderer lurked in the shadows.

He smiled at her. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. I believe, if you consult your stomach, you’ll discover you’re ravenous.”

The look she bent on him stated clearly that she would prefer he kept his so-accurate knowledge of what she was feeling to himself. He laughed, raised her, kissed her soundly, then helped her to straighten her clothes.

She, he was surprised but pleased to note, evinced no shyness; she accepted his help, not as she would from a maid but as she might from a lover, one who had the right to assist and sufficient knowledge of her body to make modesty redundant.

He might have changed, but she had, too. As they strolled down to the house hand in hand, he wondered how, and in what ways, the years had laid their hand on her. What other surprises might she have in store for him?

Luncheon was a quiet affair. Nicholas accepted his presence with nothing more than a nod; he seemed even more withdrawn, more distant-more worried but trying to hide it-than before.

Penny was still recovering; he doubted she knew how much it showed. If Nicholas had been capable of thinking of anything beyond his troubles, he would have noticed her uncharacteristic silence and the softly glowing, telltale smile that on and off flirted about her lips.

She didn’t, of course, feel at all compelled to make polite conversation for him, so the meal passed in a quiet, rather pleasant daze.

At the end, she stirred and glanced at him. He watched her struggle to find acceptable words with which to ask What next?-meaning with the investigation.

He grinned; her eyes narrowed. “I thought we could go riding. It’s a glorious day, and there are people I need to speak with in Lostwithiel.”

Penny nodded, set her napkin down, and rose. “I’ll get changed and meet you in the stables.”

Nicholas mumbled something about returning to the library; he barely noticed their departure. Parting from Charles, she climbed the stairs, changed into her habit, then headed for the stables.

He was waiting under a tree outside the garden door.

“So where are we going?” she asked as she reached him.

He took her hand and started toward the stables. “Lostwithiel first, then I want to check at the Abbey. There wasn’t anything from London this morning, but there might be something by late afternoon.”

She tugged him to a stop. “What about watching Nicholas?” She’d thought his suggestion of riding a ruse; she hadn’t expected to leave the estate.

He met her gaze, grimaced. “I’ve suborned Norris and Canter. I told them I’m working on a final mission and Nicholas is in some way under threat-exactly how I don’t yet know. I’ve asked them to keep a close eye on him. Given the way he’s reacting, I don’t expect him to go out, but he can’t, and no one can reach him, without alerting either Norris or Canter. If he receives any message, Norris will know of it; if he leaves, Canter will set one of the grooms to follow him.”

He glanced at the house, then back at her. “Regardless of Nicholas’s involvement, he didn’t kill Gimby. I need to learn more about our potential murderers.”

“The five visitors?”

He nodded. They started walking again. “The best way to learn revealing snippets is to be out and about where we can meet and talk to others, especially the people hosting those five. And it’s market day in Lostwithiel.”

She smiled. “That should be perfect.”

So it proved. They mounted and rode across country until they met the road from St. Blazey and followed it into Lostwithiel. While Fowey with its port and quays bustled with fishing and shipping, Lostwithiel was the district’s commercial hub and had been for centuries. The Guildhall looked the part, the market square before it filled with a bustling, good-natured throng, the gentry rubbing shoulders with farmers and their wives, laborers and field workers, all eyeing the wide variety of wares displayed on the stalls and trestles.

Leaving their mounts at the King’s Arms at one corner of the square, they ventured forth, mingling with the crowd, eyes peeled for their five suspects or any of said suspects’ local hosts.

The first they encountered was Mr. Albert Carmichael, squiring Imogen Cranfield through the crowd. Mrs. Cranfield followed a few paces behind, smiling indulgently, fond hope wreathing her round face. Beside her strolled her elder daughter, Mrs. Harriet Netherby.

They stopped and exchanged greetings. Harriet was a contemporary of Penny’s; although their acquaintance stretched back over decades, they’d never been friends. Charles engaged Imogen, Albert, and Mrs. Cranfield; after according him a distant nod-she had never approved of Charles and his wild ways-Harriet moved to Penny’s side.

“Such a loss to the county.” Harriet sighed. “First Frederick, then James. And now we have Charles stepping into the earl’s shoes.”

Penny arched a brow. “Don’t you think he’ll cope?”

Harriet cast the subject of their discussion a narrow-eyed glance. “Oh, I daresay he’ll manage well enough, but no doubt in his own fashion.”

Finding nothing in that with which to disagree, Penny nodded and tried to listen to the conversation Charles was managing.

“Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t grasped the opportunity to go up to London-Mama mentioned Elaine and her girls are there.”

Barely listening, Penny lightly shrugged. “I was never particularly fond of the giddy whirl.” Charles and Albert were discussing the local crops.

“Oh, you shouldn’t feel discouraged, my dear.” Harriet briefly touched her arm. “You may be getting on in years, but so many ladies die in childbed-there are always widowers looking about for a second wife.”

Penny turned her head, met Harriet’s pale gaze, and let the calculated spite slide past her. “Indeed. How’s Netherby?”

Of average height, with no more than passable looks and frizzy, mouse brown hair, Harriet had always resented her higher birth, her commensurately higher status, and, even more definitely, her more refined features and sleek blond hair. Harriet had snapped up a wealthy landowner from the northern shires in her first Season; that she had succeeded where to her mind Penny had failed had given her reason to gloat ever since.

But Harriet wasn’t interested in discussing Netherby; she turned Penny’s query aside with a dismissive, “Well enough.”

They both gave their attention to the wider conversation, just as it broke up.

Exchanging nods, smiles, and wishes to meet again soon, they parted. As Charles steered her into the crowd, Penny sank her fingertips into his arm. “What did you learn?”

“If Carmichael isn’t seriously considering offering for Imogen’s hand, then he’s the best actor I’ve ever come across. Incidentally, although she didn’t say so, Mrs. Cranfield was grateful to you for distracting Harriet. I gathered Harriet isn’t pleased that Imogen has found such a suitable parti.”

“That’s Harriet. It’s not as if Netherby’s anything to sneeze at, not for the Cranfields.”

“Indeed. However, I think we can drop Carmichael to the bottom of our list of likely murderers. While it’s possible he’s using his pursuit of Imogen as a cover for more nefarious activities, Mrs. Cranfield implied he’d been dangling for nearly a year, albeit at a distance.”

“Ah…that would explain Imogen’s distraction. She’s been dithering on the edge of happiness for months, certainly since late last year.”

Charles nodded and guided her on. A moment later, he said, “There’s Swaley, coming out of the Guildhall.”

From within the milling crowd they watched as the neat, severely garbed Swaley paused on the steps. His gaze was on the crowd, but he didn’t appear to see them. Then, as if making some decision, he went smartly down the rest of the steps and briskly headed down one side of the square.

“I wonder where he’s off to?”

A rhetorical question; they followed him at a decent distance. Both tall, they had little difficulty seeing over heads as without haste they weaved their way to the crowd’s edge.

Swaley continued down the street toward the river.

Charles lifted Penny’s hand and wound her arm more definitely with his. If Swaley glanced back, he would see the pair of them ambling like lovers stealing away to stroll beside the river.

Swaley never looked back. He marched down to Quay Street and turned along it. They reached the corner just in time to see him pause and look up at another imposing building, then enter it.

They halted. “Well, well,” Charles murmured. “That explains Swaley, and also his reluctance to discuss his business in our fair neighborhood.”

The building Swaley had entered had originally housed the old Stannary courts from where the laws governing tin-mining in the surrounding districts had been administered for centuries.

“All the records are still there, aren’t they?” Penny asked.

“Indeed. I heard that some older mines to the west thought worked out have been reopened using new techniques. Swaley’s presumably interested in scouting out the nearer claims.”

They turned and started back to the market square.

“I wonder if Lord Trescowthick knows of Swaley’s interest?”

Charles shrugged. “Swaley went to the Guildhall first, rather than direct to the old courts, which suggests he hasn’t inquired of his host.”

Regaining the square, they paused to take stock, scanning the heads.

“If Swaley’s interest is in reopening tin mines, he seems an unlikely candidate for murdering Gimby.”

“True.” Charles resettled her hand on his sleeve. “I can see the Essingtons-not her ladyship, thank heaven-and Yarrow is with them.”

He steered Penny toward the group clustered before a stall selling embroidered linens.

“Mr. Yarrow’s convalesence seems to be progressing well,” Penny murmured. “I wonder if he rode over?”

She asked him. Once they’d met and exchanged greetings, she mentioned that she and Charles had ridden over from Wallingham, commented on the lovely ride, and used the moment to inquire if Mr. Yarrow, too, had enjoyed the journey that day.

His hard hazel eyes held hers. “Sadly, no. I fear I’m still less than at full strength. But perhaps, later in my stay, you might consent to show me the beauty spots of the area? I understand you remain here throughout the year?”

Too late, the quality of Yarrow’s intent gaze registered; Penny inwardly cursed, but had to answer, “Yes, of course. There are many wonderful places…I recall Lady Essington mentioned your home was in Derbyshire. Will Mrs. Yarrow be joining you?”

Yarrow glanced down. “I regret my wife passed on some years ago. I have a young son.” He looked up, surveying their surroundings. “After this last bout of ill health, I’m considering relocating to this district. I hear the grammar school is well regarded?”

Penny kept her light smile in place. “So I believe.”

Heaven help her! Harriet had spoken of widowers, and here was Yarrow, eyeing her far too measuringly for her liking.

To her relief, Millie turned to her, linking arms. “You’re just the person I most hoped we’d meet.”

Millie waited, beaming, until Charles, who’d turned to address Yarrow, had him engaged, before tugging Penny more her way and lowering her voice. “I’m expecting again-isn’t that wonderful?”

Penny looked into Millie’s bright brown eyes, aglow with wonder and delight; she smiled warmly in return. “How lovely. David must be thrilled.” She glanced at Millie’s husband, whose proud presence at her side was now explained; he was chatting to Julia. “Do pass on my best wishes to him, too.”

“Oh, I will! I’m so happy…”

Fondly, Penny listened as Millie burbled on. This would be her third confinement; her first child had been stillborn, but the second, a sturdy two-year-old girl, was thriving. Although untouched by any maternal streak, Penny was truly pleased for Millie and found no difficulty in sharing her joy.

Eventually, she and Charles parted from the group, she promising to call at Essington Manor in the near future. The words were dying on her lips as her gaze reached Mr. Yarrow. His eyes met hers and he nodded, very correctly, in farewell. Somewhat less enthused, she nodded politely back.

“The others aren’t here.” Charles steered her toward the King’s Arms.

“Well, I don’t think Yarrow’s our murderer, either.”

“Just because he was making cod’s eyes at you doesn’t mean he doesn’t dabble in murder on the side.”

“He was not making cod’s eyes at me-and anyway, I thought it was sheep’s eyes.”

“Cod’s-fishy.”

She humphed. “There wasn’t anything fishy about him.”

“Nothing fishy about inviting you to show him the local sights, then asking your opinion on sending his son to the grammar school?” He snorted back. “Spare me.”

That last didn’t sound like the Charles she knew at all. She turned to stare at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Lips set, he gripped her elbow and escorted her into the inn’s stable yard.

Their mounts were fetched; he lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his and led the way out. Once they’d cleared the narrow, cobbled streets, he slowed until she came up beside him, then let his big gray stretch his legs; side by side, they cantered up the road to the Abbey.

At that pace, it wasn’t easy to converse; she didn’t try, but let her mind range over the afternoon, over all she’d heard, seen, learned.

They reached the Abbey; the grooms came running as they clattered into the stable yard, to take their horses and impart the news that a courier had arrived from London at midday.

“Good.” Charles closed his hand about hers and set off for the house. He didn’t exactly tow her behind him, but she had to lengthen her stride to keep up. She looked at his hand, wrapped about hers, felt the strength in his grip. She was not so much amused as intrigued.

Filchett met them in the front hall, confirming the courier’s arrival. “I placed the packet on your desk, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Charles turned for his study, her hand still in his.

Limpidly innocent, Filchett’s eyes met hers as he cleared his throat. “Shall I bring tea, my lord?”

Charles halted, glanced at her.

She met his gaze, then nodded to Filchett. “Please. In the study.”

Filchett bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”

Charles looked like he was suppressing another snort; turning, he continued to the study.

He released her hand only as they reached his desk.

Subsiding into the chair before it, she watched as he picked up the sealed packet, glanced at the direction, then, dropping into the deep chair behind the desk, reached for the letter knife.

Breaking the seal, he smoothed the three sheets, then started reading.

“Is it from your ex-commander?”

“Yes, Dalziel. This is in answer to the first queries I sent him.”

She thought back. “About Nicholas?”

“And Amberly.” Charles sat back, scanning the sheets. “Amberly was very high at the F.O., a full secretary responsible for European affairs. He retired late in ’08.” He set aside the first sheet.

“Nicholas joined the F.O. at the beginning of ’06, and rose rapidly through the ranks, courtesy, it seems, of not just his father’s name but also his own talents.” Charles’s brows rose. “It seems those Dalziel consulted consider Nicholas one of their most promising men. He’s presently an undersecretary reporting to the principal secretary. Interestingly, he’s always worked in European affairs-perhaps not surprising given his father’s background.” He glanced back at the first sheet. “Amberly’s record is impressive-there would have been much to gain by building on that.”

“Contacts, friendships, that sort of thing?”

Charles nodded. He’d moved on to the third sheet. Although he hadn’t asked for it and time had been limited, Dalziel had investigated Nicholas personally and turned up nothing of note. He’d also added a postscript.

“What?” Penny asked.

He glanced at her, reminded himself that Amberly and Nicholas were her connections. “Dalziel is going to, very quietly, investigate Amberly. Both Nicholas and Amberly are and were respectively in positions to learn secrets that would have interested the French, but while Nicholas might have continued the trade, it wasn’t his creation.”

Refolding the sheets, he tapped them on the desk, wondering just how deep Dalziel’s desire to bring justice to all spies who had trafficked in secrets to the detriment of English soliders ran. He’d heard whispers, faint but nonetheless there, that gentlemen Dalziel had proved guilty of treason had a habit of dying. Usually by their own hand, admittedly, but dying just the same.

It was a point to ponder, but not aloud.

He stirred, laid aside the packet, and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’m going to report what we learned today.” Including that he didn’t think Nicholas was guilty of Gimby’s murder, but that he certainly knew the details of whatever scheme had been afoot. “Aside from anything else, the information will give Dalziel some idea which questions will most quickly reveal what those five strangers are doing down here.”

Penny nodded and sat back. Filchett came in with the tea tray. She thanked him, and he left; she poured for Charles and herself, then sat sipping, watching while he wrote.

Eventually setting aside the empty cups, she rose and walked to the windows behind the desk, and stood looking out. The view was to the northwest; in the distance, she could see the ruins of Restormel Castle from which the Abbey took its name, and could just make out the silver ribbon of the Fowey sliding past between its lush banks.

It was complicated dealing with Charles and a murderer simultaneously, but she’d always been one to reach for what she wanted, to grasp opportunities as they occurred, to bend situations to her cause. As she had long ago, but long ago was in the past, and the here and now beckoned; she’d always taken advantage of what fate deigned to offer.

For some mystical reason, fate was offering him. Again.

She had to make up her mind what to do, make sure she wasn’t making a huge mistake-again. And it would be wise to do her thinking now, safe and sane, out of his arms, rather than pretend the inevitable wouldn’t happen and instead find herself struggling to think when he’d already whipped her wits away.

He was offering physical passion the like of which her stubborn will, her unwavering allegiance to her dreams, had condemned her to live without. When he’d first appeared, she’d been convinced the course of wisdom was to avoid any degree of indulgence with him. To guard her heart at all costs. He, after all, posed the greatest danger to it, and always had.

Now…in five days, he’d changed her mind, undermined her resistance. Made her think again. Yet it wasn’t just him and his persuasions influencing her. She’d told him the truth-it was her decisions that ruled her life, no one else’s. Independence was something fate had granted her from an early age; she’d guarded it zealously and still did.

No one was in any position to dictate to her. That made it much easier to reassess and, when the circumstances warranted, change her mind.

The present circumstances, she firmly believed, suggested a change of direction.

Harriet’s gibe over her being suitable marriage fodder for some widower-and Yarrow’s clear concurrence-had not so much struck a nerve as reminded her of where she stood, of how others saw her. She was far beyond marriageable age, an acknowledged ape-leader, a confirmed-beyond-doubt spinster; as such, she was no longer subject to the same restrictions that applied to younger ladies. If she wished to take a lover, she could; there might be whispers, but as she wasn’t planning on marrying anyone, where was the scandal? She had no desire to return to London, and county folk were prosaic about such matters; where no damage was done, who had the right to cry foul?

Unlike Harriet, she did not feel-never had felt-desperate to marry at any cost. Her identity, her status, had been hers from birth; she didn’t need to marry to create it or shore it up. She’d never believed marriage of itself-the ceremony, the institution-had any intrinsic value; its value derived from what it represented-mutual respect and sincere affection at the very least, preferably the far more powerful emotion the poets called love.

The thought brought Millie and David Essington to mind, and their new state. While she could feel pleased for others knowing how much children meant to them, she felt no maternal urges herself; the wish to procreate had never ranked as a reason to marry, as it did for some ladies. Her attitude to children might have changed if she’d ever married, but that was one question to which she accepted she would now never learn the answer.

She glanced back at Charles, still writing, the scritch-scratch of his nib across the paper the only definite sound in the room. Half-turning, she leaned against the window frame and studied him; he was concentrating on his report and thus not attuned, as he habitually was, to her.

As usual when they were in the same room, she was aware of him at some level that had nothing to do with conscious thought. Yet with his attention deflected, she could look at him, examine him if not dispassionately, then at least rationally.

His head was bent, silky locks so black they ate the light curling over his collar. He could have been a model for Lucifer, with his rakish, hard-edged, sculpted features, his sensuous mouth, the arrogance of his chin, nose, and heavy-lidded eyes.

Her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, the wide expanse of his back, acknowledging the power and harnessed strength inherent therein.

She turned back to the window.

On most counts, she’d chosen to let life as other ladies knew it pass her by. She’d held firm to her ideals and even now didn’t regret it. Yet Charles had proved to be the only man with whom she could be physically close, share any physical relationship, and here he now was, back again, laying seduction at her feet.

There was no compelling reason to refuse. Whatever he offered-whatever degree of sexual interaction-she would take it. She owed herself that much. She deserved that much. It had been so long since she’d experienced physical hunger, so long since she’d felt its mind-numbing heat.

And this time she knew the score; her heart would be safe. She didn’t need to hand it over in exchange; that wasn’t, as she’d learned, any part of his contract.

Fate had decreed she couldn’t have her heart’s desire; her will and her pride had prevented her making do with any other man. She wasn’t going to refuse whatever Charles offered to share with her. To her mind, it was rightful consolation.

A sound behind her had her turning to see him affix his seal to the folded packet. He set the seal aside, waved the letter to cool the wax, and swiveled to face her.

“Ready?”

She met his gaze, held it for an instant. “Yes.”

Stepping away from the window, she led the way from the room.