Whirlwind Affair

Chapter 10

Moving to catch the swatch of fading sunlight pouring through the window, Allie frowned at the yellowed paper tucked into the broken piece. Could this be something that belonged to David? Determined to find out, she carefully pried out the paper, then gently unfolded it. She could make out some writing, but it appeared badly faded. Holding the paper up to the light, she squinted at it, trying to make out the words. It seemed to be written in a foreign language-one she did not recognize. While she was not a linguist, it didn't appear to be French, Spanish, or Latin.

She peered at the note again. Could the words possibly be Gaelic? David had been familiar with the language, she knew. Many times, during moments of passion, he'd whispered to her in the dark-enchanting, romantic-sounding words she hadn't understood. They were Gaelic, he'd said. Phrases he'd learned during his numerous trips to Dublin, sailing across the Irish Sea from his native Liverpool.

A sense of dismay that had nothing to do with breaking the box washed through her. If this note had anything to do with David, she might not yet be able to put the past behind her. The temptation to refold the note and stuff it back into the box, or better yet, to destroy it-simply toss it into the fire-nearly overwhelmed her. No one would know.

The words reverberated through her mind, irresistibly coaxing her. No one would know. What did it matter if the note concerned David? He was dead. She owed him nothing. Destroy it. No one would know.

Yet something held her back. No one would know-except her. As much as she wished it otherwise, her conscience, not to mention her curiosity, would plague her if she did not at least attempt to discover the contents of the note. And perhaps it did not concern David at all. Perhaps it belonged to Lord Shelbourne-after all, the ring and box belonged to him. And if this note were the earl's property, she could not destroy it. She would have to return it to him.

But the fact that David knew Gaelic, coupled with everything else she knew about him… no, she could not dismiss the very real and disturbing probability that the note in some way involved her late husband.

She drew in a shaky breath. Discovering the contents… that meant the need to face the possibility that this note might very well yield information about more people he'd cheated. And if she were successful in deciphering the words, and it indeed listed more of David's victims, she would have to-

No! The word roared through her mind, and she pressed her fingertips to her temple. God help her, she wouldn't, couldn't, spend any more time righting any more of his wrongs-yet how could she not? But the mere thought of enduring more financial hardships and personal humiliations such as she'd endured for the past three years-especially when the end had seemed so close-nearly suffocated her. Don't think about it now. It might not even be an issue. And if it is… you 11 decide then.

She couldn't destroy the note. Not until she knew. Nor could she return it to the box. She couldn't risk Lord Shelbourne finding the note-of potentially damaging information falling into his or anyone else's hands. Heaving a weary sigh, she carefully refolded the note, then secreted it in a small pouch in the lining of her reticule, all the while damning the fact that she'd found it. Freedom had been so close. But at least she'd be rid of the box. Settling herself on the edge of her bed, she set about fitting the two pieces back together.

Geoffrey leaned against the marble mantel in his drawing room, watching a footman serve his guests an aperitif. It was nearly impossible to maintain his air of detached outer calm. She'd handed the box to him a quarter hour ago, when she'd first entered the room. He'd given it a quick glance, then laughed. "Not a particularly handsome piece, is it?" After thanking her, he'd casually slipped it into his pocket, where it now all but scorched a hole through the material.

Finally, unable to stand the suspense one second longer, he said, "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I must have a word with Willis." Maintaining a slow, even stride, he left the room, then entered his private study where he locked the door behind him.

He crossed to his desk, slowly withdrawing the box from his pocket, biting back the overwhelming urge to pounce upon it like a mongrel on a bone. With his heart slamming against his ribs, he pulled the box apart and stared in the bottom.

The empty bottom.

Panic seized him and he ran shaking, frantic fingers all over the rusted metal surface. Was there another opening? But after several minutes of desperate searching, he was forced to admit the nightmarish truth. The paper was missing.

A barrage of obscenities exploded from his lips, and he hurled the useless box across the room. Fisting his hands in his hair, he paced furiously around the room, his breath expelling from his lungs in painful gasps.

Where the bloody hell was it? She must have it. Must have found it. Or at least must know its whereabouts.

He had to find out. Had to. Had to. Now. He halted and squeezed his eyes shut. Damn it, his head felt about to explode. Have to pull myself together. Must find out what she knows. Then get rid of her. He hadn't worried about Redfern finding the letter, as the man did not know how to read-a fact that Geoffrey had been careful to ascertain before hiring him. It wouldn't do to have Redfern find the note by chance and be able to extort money from him as David Brown had done. Although Redfern's greed would keep him from showing the letter to anyone to read and risk having to share his blunt. But Mrs. Brown… he suspected she was neither illiterate nor stupid. And she was no doubt as greedy as her husband had been.

Drawing deep breaths until he steadied, he then walked slowly to the mirror and smoothed his hair back into place. He jerked his lapels back into perfect alignment, then made a minute adjustment to his cravat. Satisfied that his appearance was once again flawless, he quit the room to return to his guests.

Alberta Brown clearly thought herself clever. A mistake, my dear. A fatal mistake.

Allie immediately sensed something odd in the earl's demeanor when he reentered the drawing room. From her seat facing the doorway, she watched him pause on the threshold, his gaze riveted on her. A chill of apprehension slithered down her spine at his glacial expression.

"Everything all right?" Lord Robert asked, looking at their host with a puzzled frown. Clearly he also sensed all was not well.

"Of course." The earl waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "A tiny miscalculation in the kitchen apparently, but Willis assures me all is well. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?"

Allie accepted his proffered elbow, praying her reluctance did not show. Perhaps she was imagining his disquiet.

But by the second dinner course of delicately poached turbot, Allie knew she was not imagining things. The way he kept staring at her, as if he were attempting to see into her mind… yes, something was definitely amiss. Was he ill? She dismissed the notion as quickly as it occurred to her. No, it seemed as if repressed anger bubbled just below the surface of his flawless manners.

Could he possibly know about the note? Know it was missing and that she had it? She instantly discarded that theory as well. How could he know about the note when he had not even known that the ring or the box existed until she came to England?

No answers presented themselves, yet his manner disturbed her in a way she could not put her finger on. Some instinct, however, cautioned her that it might behoove her to find out more about this man. And surely the best way to do that was not to remain silent.

Raising her chin, she offered the earl a smile. "Your home is lovely… Geoffrey."

His expression relaxed. Then his lips curved slowly upward, while his gaze drifted leisurely downward to rest on her mouth. "Thank you."

She indicated the gilt-framed still life adorning the wall behind him. "You're clearly a lover of art. That is a beautiful piece."

Robert's jaw froze in midchew, and he stared across the table. Mrs. Brown was looking at-no, smiling at- Shelbourne-no, Geoffrey-with an interested warmth that simultaneously stunned and irritated him. Damn it all, he'd been in another brown study and had clearly missed something. And the way Shelbourne was looking at-no, ogling- her… When the bloody hell had all this warm coziness started?

Pretending to be fascinated with his turbot and peas, he covertly observed their interchange, but it quickly became apparent he did not require the ruse, as they both had seemingly forgotten his presence.

"Do you like art, Alberta?"

"I very much enjoy looking at it, but I'm afraid I possess little knowledge on the subject."

"Then after dinner, I shall show you the gallery. While it's quite modest in comparison to the one at Shelbourne Manor, there are some… exquisite pieces."

The inflection in Shelbourne's tone when he said "exquisite pieces," not to mention the way his gaze boldly roamed over her breasts, tensed every muscle in Robert's body. Bloody libertine. How dare he look at her like that? You mean, in the exact way you've looked at her? his inner voice taunted.

No! He fought the urge to tunnel his hands through his hair in exasperation. He couldn't deny he'd looked at her with desire, but there was a calculation in Shelbourne's eyes… a predatory gleam that edged more than jealousy through Robert. It made him distinctly uneasy.

"Lord Robert showed me through Vauxhall Gardens this afternoon," Mrs. Brown said to their host. "A lovely place."

Shelbourne cocked a brow. "In the afternoon, yes, but it is especially so at night." He leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to an intimate level. "All those dark, private walkways make for some very… stimulating evenings."

Robert gritted his teeth and fought the nearly overwhelming urge to plant the blackguard a facer. Yet more disturbing than Shelbourne's behavior-which was at least expected- was Mrs. Brown's. Instead of appearing outraged, a delicate peach blush colored her cheeks, and what appeared to be a suppressed grin twitched her lips… Lips that Shelbourne's gaze seemed plastered to.

A change in conversation was most definitely in order. "How are things at your Cornwall estate, Shelbourne?" he asked.

Shelbourne did not even glance at him. "Spendid. Tell me, Alberta -"

"Have you implemented any upgrades? I understand from Austin there's been recent improvements in both irrigation systems and farming techniques."

Shelbourne finally turned toward him, a lazily amused smile lifting one corner of his mouth. "My irrigation systems are in excellent condition, Jamison, thank you for asking. As for my techniques… I've heard no complaints."

"Indeed? Perhaps you are not listening closely enough."

A long, measuring look passed between them. Then, with a careless shrug that set Robert's teeth on edge, Shelbourne's gaze swiveled back to Mrs. Brown. He launched into a lengthy description of his Cornwall estate, his attention remaining almost exclusively on Mrs. Brown, who seemed not to mind at all. Indeed, if her blushes were any indication, she was quite enjoying Shelbourne's address. Deciding the meal would end more quickly if he did not prolong the conversation, Robert remained mostly silent.

The instant the interminable meal ended, Robert rose, intending to depart, but Shelbourne smoothly reminded him that he'd promised Mrs. Brown a tour of the gallery.

"I'd love to see it," Mrs. Brown said.

Left with no option that did not leave him appearing churlish, and not about to allow Shelbourne to be alone with her, Robert accompanied them, his mood growing more grim each time Shelbourne touched her, which seemed to be constantly. Brushing his fingers against her arm to gain her attention. Resting his palm on the small of her back to lead her to the next painting. Tucking her hand through his elbow. Jealousy ate at him, made worse-and damn it, more hurtful-every time she offered Shelbourne one of her rare smiles.

Six, damn it. She'd smiled at Shelbourne six times since they'd entered the gallery. And eight times during dinner. Not that Robert was counting. But she hadn't offered him so much as a glance. Her obvious pleasure in Shelbourne's company concerned and genuinely confused him.

What about her devotion to her husband? Had Shelbourne's attention encouraged her to step out from her mourning? While he would be happy to see her abandon the outward signs of grieving, he found it hard to accept that Shelbourne would be the man to make her want to do so. Me. I want it to be me.

As much as he hated to, he was forced to admit that Shelbourne possessed the qualities that most women admired: He was wealthy, titled, and handsome, his dark good looks tinged with an edge of danger. But Mrs. Brown did not strike Robert as falling into the category of "most women."

Still, perhaps all she'd needed was for a man to court her. To sweep her off her feet. To show her, without a doubt, that he found her desirable. Me. I want it to be me.

His footsteps faltered at the thought, precipitously so, as he'd been about to plow into Shelbourne's back where he and Mrs. Brown had paused before what was, thankfully, the last painting.

"She's beautiful," Mrs. Brown murmured.

"Yes," Shelbourne agreed. "But she pales in comparison to you."

Robert's gaze flicked over the painting. A Gainsborough, he noted. Quite a nice one. And the subject, a young woman standing in a field of wildflowers, was undeniably beautiful. And she did indeed pale in comparison to Mrs. Brown.

And damn it, he wanted to be the one telling her so. Wanted her gaze directed at him.

Me. I want her to want me.

And it was about time he did something about it.

"Given your interest in art," Shelbourne was saying, "you must see the Elgin Marbles while you're in town. Why don't I call upon you tomorrow-"

"Impossible," Robert interjected, not even attempting to hide the edge in his voice. "We depart for Bradford Hall at first light. Indeed, it's time we take our leave of you."

Shelbourne led them down the corridor toward the foyer, his gaze never leaving Mrs. Brown's face. "I am desolate, Alberta. How long will you stay in Kent?"

"Six weeks."

"And then?"

"Then I sail home," she said softly.

Something squeezed in Robert's chest at her words.

"I may be traveling through Kent in the next few weeks. If so, I shall make a point to call at Bradford Hall. It would be a pleasure to see Bradford and the duchess again." Shelbourne leaned down, his lips nearly brushing Mrs. Brown's ear. "And a great pleasure to see you again."

Luckily they arrived in the foyer just then, for Robert felt like a teakettle about to spew a stream of steam.

"Thank you for dinner," Mrs. Brown said, tying her bonnet strings in a small bow beneath her chin. "I enjoyed the food and your artwork very much."

"As I enjoyed your company, Alberta." Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingertips-for much longer than necessary-and with a heated look in his eye Robert recognized all too well.

His hands fisted inside his gloves. The manners drummed into him since childhood were the only thing that kept him from dropping the man like a stone. Inclining his head in Shelbourne's direction, he said, "Lovely meal. My thanks." Then, before Shelbourne could so much as look at her again, he angled himself between them and swiftly escorted her to the waiting carriage.

After assisting Mrs. Brown to step up, he murmured, "Excuse me, I forgot my walking stick." He strode back to the town house, where Willis admitted him. Shelbourne still stood in the foyer.

"A moment of your time, Shelbourne," he said.

Shelbourne raised his brows at his sharp tone, but merely said, "Of course. My study?"

"The foyer is adequate."

With an almost imperceptible nod from Shelbourne, Willis left them alone. Then Shelbourne regarded him through narrowed eyes. "What on earth could be so important, Jamison, that you would leave that ravishing creature alone?"

"She is what I wish to talk about. Leave her alone."

"Surely that is something the lady can decide for herself. And I must tell you, Jamison, she did not give me the impression that that was what she wanted."

"She doesn't know your reputation as I do."

Shelbourne appeared amused. "Oh, but by all means, tell her. My wicked reputation is often half the attraction. And I've a particular fondness for experienced widows."

Robert favored him with his most frigid, unwavering glare. "Cast your jaded eye elsewhere, Shelbourne."

"She doesn't belong to you, Jamison." Cunning speculation flickered in his eyes. "Or does she?"

It took every ounce of Robert's willpower not to wipe that smug expression from Shelbourne's face-with his fist. "All you need to know is that she will never belong to you. Have I made myself clear?"

"I don't believe I care for your tone, Jamison."

"I don't believe I give a damn, Shelbourne." He took one step closer to the earl. Shelbourne was tall, but Robert had him by an inch, a fact he took full advantage of. "I've said what I came here to say. You'd be wise to not give me cause to ever repeat it."

Without waiting for Willis, Robert let himself out, striding quickly down the walkway to the waiting carriage.

From the narrow foyer window, Geoffrey watched the carriage depart. Hmm. Jamison clearly harbored a tendre for Mrs. Brown. Pity. The woman was not long for this world. And if Jamison got in the way, his days were numbered as well.