Kitabı oxu: «Sins and Scandals Collection»

Sins and Scandals Collection
Mistress by Midnight
Whisper of Scandal
One Wicked Sin
Notorious
Desired
Forbidden

Nicola Cornick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Mistress by Midnight

Nicola Cornick’s novels have received acclaim the world over

“Cornick is first-class, Queen of her game.”

—Romance Junkies

“A rising star of the Regency arena.”

—Publishers Weekly

Praise for THE SCANDALOUS WOMEN OF THE TON series

“A riveting read.”

—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney on Whisper of Scandal

“One of the finest voices in historical romance.”

—SingleTitles.com

“Ethan Ryder (is) a bad boy to die for! A memorable story

of intense emotions, scandals, trust, betrayal and all-

encompassing love. A fresh and engrossing tale.”

—Romantic Times on One Wicked Sin

“Historical Romance at its very best is

written by Nicola Cornick.”

—Mary Gramlich, The Reading Reviewer

Acclaim for Nicola’s previous books

“Witty banter, lively action, and sizzling passion.”

—Library Journal on Undoing of a Lady

“RITA^® Award-nominated Cornick deftly steeps her latest intriguingly complex Regency historical in a beguiling blend of danger and desire.” —Booklist on Unmasked

Author Note

Like the other books in this trilogy, Mistress by Midnight is inspired by real-life events. In this case, the London Beer Flood of 1814, when a vat on top of the brewery in Tottenham Court Road exploded, flooding the nearby streets with beer and claiming several lives. One of those was a man who died of alcohol poisoning from drinking too much of the flood.

Mistress by Midnight tells Merryn’s story. The younger sister of celebrated society hostess Lady Joanna Grant, Merryn is a bluestocking whose scholarly activities hide a secret life working for the private investigator Tom Bradshaw. Merryn also has a vendetta to pursue against Garrick, the new Duke of Farne, the man responsible for her brother’s death. When the Beer Flood traps Merryn and Garrick together and they are in fear of their lives, a new sort of connection develops from their bond of hatred—this time a bond of wild passion. But will it outlive the terror of the flood?

I have adored writing these three books in the Scandalous Women of the Ton series and there is much more background history and exciting detail to explore on my website at www.nicolacornick.co.uk. Look out for more in the Scandalous Women of the Ton series. Coming soon!

“Ah Love! Could you and I with fate conspire

To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire

Would not we shatter it to bits—and then

Re-mould it nearer to the heart’s desire!”

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, verse 108, translated by Edward Fitzgerald

For my mother, Sylvia

CHAPTER ONE

London, November 1814

“WE WERE NOT expecting you, your grace,” Pointer, the butler, said.

Garrick Northesk, Duke of Farne, paused in the act of loosening his greatcoat. The raindrops on the shoulders glittered in the dim candlelight of the hall like dusty diamonds before sliding down to splash on the tiled floor.

“Lovely to see you again, too, Pointer,” he said.

The butler’s expression did not waver. Evidently, Garrick thought, his late father had not been given to jokes with the servants. Of course he had not. The eighteenth Duke had been famed for many things but a sense of humor was not one of them.

“We have had no time to prepare your chamber, your grace,” Pointer continued, “nor is there any food in the house. I only received your message a few hours ago and there was no time to engage any staff.” He gestured at the shrouded furniture and grimy mirrors. “The house has been closed. We have not had the opportunity to clean.”

That was manifestly obvious. Long cobwebs trailed from the chandelier in the center of the vast hall. The dust and grit of the London streets crunched beneath Garrick’s boots as he crossed the floor. The ghostly covers on all the statuaries and the veiled furnishings only added to the sense of Gothic mystery. A mere two candles burned in the sconces, throwing long shadows. And it was cold, very cold. Garrick wished he had kept his coat on.

“I don’t require anything tonight, thank you,” he said. “Only a candle to light me to my bed and some hot water.”

“You have no luggage, your grace?” Pointer’s long nose, so appropriate to his name, twitched with disapproval.

“It follows,” Garrick said briefly. No carriage could have kept up with his hell-for-leather ride.

“And your valet?”

“Gage follows, too.”

Garrick took a candle from the sconce, leaving Pointer fluttering around in the dark hall like a monstrous moth. He was tired, exhausted really, the fatigue bone-deep, his limbs aching from riding hard all day. He had buried his father only five days before in the family mausoleum at Farnecourt on the west coast of Ireland. Trust the old devil to choose to be buried on his Irish estates with all pomp and circumstance and maximum inconvenience to his family. The late Duke had never cared a fig for Farnecourt in his lifetime, deploring the beautiful Irish countryside as barbarous and the people as heathens. It was no wonder that few people other than his closest family had turned out for the funeral and those who did had probably only come so that they could be sure the old man really was dead. Well, the vault was sealed now and not even the eighteenth Duke could come back from beyond the grave.

He was Duke of Farne now, with no son to follow him.

Nor would there ever be one.

His first marriage had been disaster enough. He had no inclination to try again.

Garrick paused halfway up the shallow staircase that led to the first floor. The intricately inlaid parquet steps were dull with dirt. The elegant curls and swirls of the iron banisters were festooned with thick white cobwebs. The house was like a tomb. How appropriate.

His father, the eighteenth Duke, had been furious to be dying in such an untimely fashion, with half his life’s ambitions still unfulfilled. He had railed against his mortal illness, a reaction that had in all probability carried him off all the quicker. So now Garrick was master of this mausoleum and twenty-six other houses in ten counties, plus an obscenely large fortune. It was more than one man had any right to possess.

Out of habit rather than choice, Garrick pushed open the door of the sixth bedchamber on the left-hand side down an endless corridor that stretched away into darkness. On the rare occasions that he had stayed at his father’s house in London this had always been his room.

It was smaller than the state chambers albeit not one whit cozier. Farne House had been designed to awe and impress not to welcome. It would be possible for a small army to be lost in the labyrinth of passages for a number of days. The grate was empty and the whole room cold and inhospitable, although there was an odd scent of smoke in the air as though the candles had recently been snuffed out. A copy of Mansfield Park lay on the floor. Garrick picked it up absentmindedly and returned it to the table.

There was a knock at the door; a housemaid with blessedly hot water. Evidently Pointer had managed to drum up at least one servant to help him. The girl placed the ewer of water carefully on the side table and dropped him a frightened curtsy. Her wide-eyed gaze searched his face before sliding away when he turned to thank her. Perhaps she was afraid of him in case he was like his sire. Rumors of the late Duke’s behavior must have made their way into every servant agency in London. Garrick’s father had seen the rape of the maidservants as one of his privileges rather than as a heinous crime. The eighteenth Duke had beaten his servants and kicked his dogs, and vice versa. Garrick felt his stomach cramp with disgust and revulsion at the memories.

Once the girl had run away he eased off his boots with a heartfelt sigh. As he had no valet to attend him it was fortunate that he was no dandy. He liked fine leather but he did not want a pair of boots that were so tight they had to be removed by brute force. Nor did his jacket require coaxing from his shoulders. He had even mastered the art of tying his own neck cloth with tolerable ease. It had always struck him as supremely impractical to be incapable of dressing or undressing without help, like a child or an invalid. Besides, for many years he had lived and traveled in places where not even the most devoted servant would ever follow.

The hot water removed the dirt of his journey and made him wish suddenly for a bath to ease his saddle-sore body, but it was late and he had no intention of disturbing the servants again. Tomorrow he would have to start the tedious business of mastering his father’s affairs. That was his duty. Being a Duke was a privilege, or so he had been told from the cradle. It was a pity, then, that he saw it as a monstrous burden. He would not shirk it, though. He understood all about duty and service. Now, though, he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

There was a decanter on the dresser. On impulse he poured a glass of brandy, hoping it might warm him a little. It did more than that; it burned fire down to his stomach, reminding him he had not eaten for at least a day. No matter. He refilled the glass, knocked the liquid back again, once, twice? The combination of strong drink and weariness set his head spinning but now at least he might be able to sleep.

He expected the bed to be damp but to his surprise the sheets were cool and smooth but quite dry. He slid between them with a heartfelt sigh and turned his head against the softest of down pillows. A scent arose, elusive, sweet, the smell of a summer garden with shifting perfumes of bluebells and honeysuckle. It filled his senses, heating him from the inside out, awakening urges that were as unexpected as they were unwelcome. Suddenly the silken slide of the sheet felt like a lover’s caress against his bare chest. He could taste temptation, sweet, dark and provocative. His body hardened into arousal.

He was dreaming. Fantasizing.

With a groan Garrick rolled over and willed his errant body into submission. Mind over matter. It was easy. He had done it a hundred times before. But this time the desire was too strong and it had come upon him too hard and fast. It swirled about him sinuously until he was helpless in its grip. He lay back and breathed deeply but that merely filled his lungs with that wistful scent of flowers. If it had not been so fanciful he would have sworn that someone had been sleeping in his bed, a wraith, a ghost, imprinting her very presence on him.

It was a trick of the senses. It could be no more. He was tired and drunk, and he had not had a woman in a long time and now his body was rebelling, reminding him of all that he had rejected.

Once, before his marriage, he had been a rake and after his wife had died he had returned to that life for a while. He had tried to drown his grief and guilt in debauchery. It had not worked. Now he lived like a monk. Some physical frustration was therefore inevitable. Or so he told himself.

The ton gossiped about him. They had done for years. He knew it. He ignored it.

Garrick Farne, the man who murdered his best friend, his wife’s lover.

It was twelve years but even now he could not remember without a lurch of the heart and that familiar drag of guilt and grief. Which was as it should be. Penance was not meant to be easy.

As he rolled over to blow out the candle the book caught his eye once more. It had a deep red cover and black lettering. Below it, on the nightstand, was tucked a small pair of spectacles. Garrick raised his brows. Had Pointer used this room to escape with a good book? Garrick thought it unlikely. The very proper butler would surely not make free with the ducal bedroom, nor would he approve of fiction for that matter.

He took the book in his hand and turned to the flyleaf. There was an inscription there, the initials M and F entwined, and from the pages came the same elusive scent of flowers. Garrick laid the book aside on the coverlet and thought vaguely that he should perhaps check beneath the bed or inside the wardrobe for the spectacle-wearing, bluebell-scented intruder, but he was too tired. Tomorrow … tomorrow he would make a thorough search, but for now he wanted to slough off all the responsibilities of rank, forget his father’s grim legacy and sink into unconsciousness.

He was about to do so when the door opened again, most unexpectedly and without the courtesy of a knock first. In the doorway stood a vision of beauty. From her elegantly coiffed dark curls to her pink satin slippers she exuded sophistication and an unmistakable air of raw sexuality. Garrick shot bolt upright with an oath.

“Harriet? What the devil—” He was fiercely aware of his huge erection, which had not been roused by Harriet’s appearance but by his previous unrestrained imaginings. Thank goodness he had retained his trousers. He had no wish for the evidence of his physical state to be tenting the bedcovers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. He should have locked the door, he thought. Except that this was his house and he had not expected a seduction.

He had last seen Harriet Knight five days ago at his father’s funeral, when she had been swathed from head to foot in irreproachable black rather than lightly dressed—or rather, undressed—in this thistledown confection of pale, transparent pink. So much for his belief that he had outrun the rest of the family in his headlong flight back to London. Harriet, his late father’s ward, was before him. And she really was standing before him, allowing the gown to fall from her shapely pale shoulders, down over her full breasts and lushly curved hips, to stand beside the bed in all her glorious nudity. Garrick’s head spun with drink, tiredness and shock. He had known Harriet was a minx, probably worse than a minx, but he had not thought her quite so brazen.

“Garrick, darling.” Her voice—that throaty, seductive purr—washed over him. “I’ve come to welcome the new Duke to his new … position.”

Harriet, Garrick thought, had long wanted to be the next Duchess of Farne. She had made no secret of it. She simply had not previously resorted to such sledgehammer tactics.

She stepped up to the side of the bed and he was almost knocked flat by the powerful scent of her perfume. It banished the other softer, sweeter scent of bluebells with the subtlety of a mallet. He almost fell over against the pillows.

“Did Pointer let you in?” he demanded. “At this time of night? Dressed like that?”

Of all the foolish questions … A naked Harriet was sitting down on the edge of the bed, a foot away from him, and he was discussing issues of etiquette? He was disorientated, drunk and disturbed. Harriet’s left breast brushed his bare arm and he flinched. He was getting confused now. He was weary and more than a little cast away, and he was aching for a woman who was not this one, a woman who was no more than a wraith, a dream. But Harriet was all too real and she did have magnificent breasts …

She also had an enormous desire to be a Duchess and he was in extreme danger. He eased away from her beneath the sheets. She wriggled voluptuously in pursuit.

“Where is your chaperone?” he demanded, breathlessly. “I cannot believe that Mrs. Roach would countenance this—”

“I’ll send for her if you desire a threesome.” Harriet’s narrow green eyes glittered like a feral cat. “Darling Garrick, shall we celebrate?”

“My father’s death is hardly a matter for celebration,” Garrick said. His mind was spinning. “Harriet, no—”

“On the contrary.” She had thrown one thigh over him now and was pinning him down. Her moist warmth seared him through the sheet. “We are all absolutely thrilled that he has died,” she said. “Why pretend? And now you and I can have our own, very special little reunion, Garrick.” She slid a hand down over the bedcovers until it met his erection. “Oh, good, you have started already.”

She wriggled down upon him, simultaneously pressing her lips to his. “Brandy,” she murmured. “Delicious.”

She, in contrast, tasted a little sour. Garrick felt as though he was being smothered by a cushion. He groaned in protest. Harriet seemed to interpret this as enthusiasm. Her hands were all over his naked chest now, her lips clinging to his, her thighs gripping him through the bedcovers. In a moment she would surely slip under the sheets, slide down on top of him, and then …

And then there would be the most almighty scandal and Harriet Knight would be Duchess of Farne and his life would be ruined a second time over.

To have one unfaithful wife could be construed as a misfortune. To have two would be worse than careless. He did not want a wife with fashionable morals. He did not want a wife at all.

Suddenly Garrick was very awake and very sober. His body might desire Harriet—it could be very indiscriminate at times—but his mind most certainly did not. He had had enough of mechanistic, emotionless couplings and he was not going to be trapped into marriage via another one.

“Harriet, no.” He took her arm and pushed her away from him with more force than finesse. She gave a little bounce and a squeak as she tumbled from the bed onto the floor.

“You do me too much honor,” Garrick said smoothly, leaping out after her and scooping up her negligee. “I understand your need for comfort after the shocking death of your guardian. I am privileged beyond measure that you thought to give me your virginity—” God forgive him for two lies in one short sentence “—but I cannot take such a sacrifice. You are distraught.”

He wrapped the gaping beauty roughly in the diaphanous material and gave her a shove toward the door. But Harriet was stubborn.

“I shall tell Mrs. Roach,” she said, glaring. “I shall tell your mama. I shall tell everyone that you seduced me.”

Garrick shook his head. “I don’t think you will, my dear.” There was steel in his tone now.

She stood staring at him for a moment. Garrick wondered what she could see in his eyes. Was it the coldness of a man who had long ago ceased caring?

For a moment Harriet looked frightened.

“Damn you, Farne,” she said. Garrick shrugged. “If you wish.” Harriet whirled around and slammed out of the door. Silence settled again.

It was then that Garrick heard the sneeze.

UNDER THE LARGE tester bed, Lady Merryn Fenner lay with her face pressed against the dusty floorboards. She had been trapped for a half hour. In a short but varied career working for the private investigator Tom Bradshaw she had never been in a situation quite like this one. She had never been caught before.

Merryn had been reading when the Duke of Farne had entered the bedroom and had had a bare few seconds to take cover. She had hoped to escape when he fell asleep. Then the woman had come in. Merryn had heard the husky seductive tones, seen the robe fall to the floor, felt the bedsprings give and had known she was in for a thorough education in a matter in which she had previously been in almost total ignorance.

She had rolled over, pressing her face against the floor, eyes screwed tightly closed. She had shoved her fingers in her ears and prayed that Garrick Farne’s ardor would be both quick and exhausting, that the lovers would wear themselves out swiftly and fall into a sex-induced stupor. The sounds and the movements she could not quite block out had made her feel very hot and bothered. She could feel her body radiating a warmth that was part embarrassment but also something else infinitely more disconcerting. Her clothes felt tight and restraining and she wanted to squirm. It was most odd.

Then she had inhaled a cobweb and the harder she tried to hold back a sneeze the more it tickled her before it burst out with explosive force.

Oh, dear. There was no escape now. That would have disturbed even the most ardent lovers.

Sure enough, a second later, someone reached down, grabbed her arm and dragged her from under the bed. She was hauled roughly to her feet. Eyes watering, another sneeze threatening, she drew herself up to her full five-foot height.

How to explain? No, forget the explanations, how to escape?

“My bedroom seems an unconscionably popular venue tonight,” the man before her drawled.

Garrick Farne, best friend to her brother Stephen. Her brother’s murderer …

Merryn shivered. Once—pitiful to remember now—she had had a schoolgirl crush on Garrick Farne. He had been like a god to her, a creature who inhabited a different world. While Merryn and her sisters had lived a circumscribed life, educated at home, their existence bounded by the village of Fenridge and their parents’ immediate acquaintances, Stephen and his friends, including Garrick, had studied at Oxford, gambled their patrimony away in London, lived, according to the gossip, for women and drink and vice. Oh, how she had lapped up that scandal. It had all sounded frightfully exciting to a thirteen-year-old girl who had never traveled farther than Bath in her life.

Garrick had never noticed her, of course. Why should he? Merryn had two beautiful elder sisters who drew all the eyes, all the attention and all the compliments. Besides, Garrick had been betrothed from the cradle to Kitty Scott, the daughter of his father’s political friend and ally; it was simply a matter of when Kitty and Garrick wed, not if they wed. Kitty was a beauty, too, the toast of the town. Which was no doubt why Stephen had fallen in love with her, too …

A shock ran through Merryn now, like lightning, like recognition, setting her shaking as though she had an ague. Garrick Farne. His name had become a byword for evil in her family, a murderer, a man who had ruined her life and those of her father and her sisters. While he had been abroad, in exile, it had been just about possible for her to put him from her mind, to ignore, if not forget, the events of that hot summer so many years ago. Then, fifteen months ago, Garrick had come back, back to a society that instead of trying him for murder had welcomed him like a hero; back to be lauded as the most handsome, wealthy and eligible nobleman in the ton.

In contrast it seemed to Merryn that no one remembered her brother Stephen at all. He was gone, irrelevant, forgotten. They had not one single memento of him left, for every picture, every possession, had been swallowed up to pay off the debts when their father died. The Earldom of Fenner was extinct, the family lands lost while Garrick Farne was wealthy, titled and, most importantly, alive. Garrick’s return to England had sparked something within Merryn, awoken all those unbearable memories from the time that Stephen had died, and suddenly the past was real and painful to her once again, as raw and ragged as when it had first happened.

Merryn rubbed one hand across her streaming eyes and looked around for Garrick’s mistress, the woman with the husky voice, imaginative ideas and overpowering perfume. But it seemed that they were alone.

“Oh!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “She has gone!”

Garrick raised one dark brow. “Did you not hear me throw her out?”

“I had my fingers in my ears,” Merryn said. “I did not want to hear anything, thank you. Being squashed by the bouncing of the bed was quite bad enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Garrick said politely. “Had I known that you were there I would, of course, have ejected her all the sooner.” His gaze swept over her, lingering on the cobwebs.

“It is very dirty under your bed,” Merryn said defensively.

He bowed ironically. “Again, I apologize. Next time you plan to take refuge there I shall ensure the room is swept clean.”

“That would be appreciated,” Merryn said.

Why are we having this conversation? she thought. This was quite wrong. This was not how she had imagined an encounter with the Duke of Farne would be.

She looked at him. Actually she had not imagined any encounter, at least not here and now, which was why she was so frightfully unprepared. She had thought Garrick would be safely out of the way in Ireland for at least a further week. He had buried his father less than seven days ago, after all. It was perfectly reasonable to assume that the house would remain empty.

Garrick was standing between her and the door. He looked enormous. In part that was because she was quite small. It was also because he was over six foot and he had a powerful physique—she could see that quite clearly since he was half naked. His chest was broad and bare, and his trousers were molded to muscular thighs.

At least he had his trousers on. Thank God.

Merryn felt quite faint with relief as she realized it. Light-headed, she closed her eyes for a second. After the scene with his mistress she had expected him to be completely naked …

“Are you quite well?” His voice cut through her mental image of what a naked Garrick Farne might look like and her gaze flew up to meet his own sardonic one.

“Perfectly, I thank you,” she said.

He had dark brown eyes under straight black brows, high cheekbones and a very hard line to his jaw. It was an austere face, Merryn thought, cold and remote, enough to make one shiver. The rest of him was russet and gold—smooth golden skin, tousled auburn hair, an intriguing scattering of more wiry dark red hair across his chest, and down toward the band at the top of his trousers. Merryn found she was staring. She had never seen a man in a state of undress before. It was fascinating. She felt the urge to touch so strongly that she was already reaching out a hand toward him before she realized it. She turned scarlet and hoped the dust on her face would conceal her embarrassment. In the same instant she remembered that she hated him.

A shudder racked her.

“Well? I await the explanation of your presence here.” Farne’s voice was as sharp as a lash and Merryn jumped. She really had to get out of here before matters got any worse. Because of course she could not tell him her purpose in searching his house. She could hardly say, “I discovered three weeks ago that you lied to everyone about my brother’s death. It was bad enough that you killed him … I hated you for that. But now I know you covered up the truth as well and I want justice. I want you to hang …”

No, indeed. It would not do to alert Garrick Farne to her purpose.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I did not realize that you required an explanation. You had not said.”

Garrick’s mouth curled up at the corner into a beguiling smile. Chill ripples ran across her skin. Revulsion, she thought. That is the effect he has on me now. Hatred. Disgust …

“My good woman, any right-thinking person would demand to know your business.” He paused. “Or should I call you a girl rather than a woman? You do not look very old—” Before she had chance to escape him, he had raised a hand and brushed the cobwebby dust from her cheeks. His touch was gentle. She shivered again, stepping back.

“I am five and twenty,” she said with dignity. Why am I offering this information? Why am I even speaking to him? “I am not a girl.”

“Woman, then.” That disquieting smile in his eyes deepened. So did the curl of heat in her stomach, the one that she wanted to attribute to hatred.

Concentrate. You have to get out of here.

“I suppose,” she said hastily, “you think it odd in me to be in your room.”

“I do.” He had not taken his eyes from her face once during their encounter. “I am fascinated to hear your explanation.”

“Well, I …” No useful lie sprang to mind. Merryn was not very good at dissembling. She never normally needed to bother. No one ever noticed her because she took pains to appear small, plain and insignificant. No one ever really saw her.

“I thought the house was empty,” she said. “I needed somewhere to sleep.”

It was partially true. She had been sleeping in Farne House for several nights while she made a leisurely search of the premises, hunting for something, anything, which might throw fresh light on the circumstances of her brother’s death. At first it had happened by accident. She had been exhausted and had dropped off to sleep in an armchair in the library, waking hours later both amazed and amused that she had not been discovered. She had known that a skeleton staff of servants lived in the house but they had not troubled her. No one had even realized that she was there. Farne House was huge and had been neglected for months, ever since the late Duke had been taken ill on his Irish estates back at the start of the year. And so the idea had come to her that she could stay at Farne House while she hunted for the evidence to incriminate Garrick Farne. In an odd way sleeping in Garrick’s house had made her feel closer to him. It had fed her hatred and hardened her determination to find out the truth.

Farne’s brows had snapped down at her words. “You broke in here because you are destitute?” He rapped out. “Homeless?”

“Yes.” Merryn thought that she might get away with the story. London was full of tumbled down and abandoned houses. It was common knowledge on the streets that if you had no roof over your head you would be able to find shelter under the cover of the Fleet Market or in the abandoned workhouse in Dyot Street. But there were those beggars who were more daring and who squatted in the houses of the nobility. Plenty of these mansions were barely used, closed when the family was out of London, neglected and empty.

It seemed, however, that Garrick was not convinced. He took a step closer to her. His hand was on her shoulder. She flinched, but he was only fingering the fine wool of her gown, testing it. Unfortunately the dust was insufficiently thick to conceal its quality.

“A good try.” He sounded grimly amused. “But this is not the attire of someone who is down on their luck.”

Devil take it, he was sharp.

“I stole it.” Now she had started with the deception it seemed she had a more vivid imagination than even she had thought. “From a washing line.”

He was nodding thoughtfully. “What a fine liar you are. Most imaginative.”

Damnation. He had not been taken in even for a second. But he had at least moved away from the door.

“Who are you?” he said. “Why are you here?”

“I cannot tell you that,” Merryn said, reverting to her true character after her brief and unsuccessful foray into deception.

“You mean that you do not want to tell me.” He had his head on one side, still watching her. Those brown eyes were very perceptive. She felt a little dizzy. Discovery felt a little closer.

Concentrate. Three steps to the door …

“That’s right,” she said. “I do not want to talk to you at all.”

“Yet you are not in a position to refuse.”

“That’s debatable.”

He laughed. “You want to debate?”

“No,” Merryn said. “I want to leave.”

He shook his head. “I should hand you over to Bow Street for housebreaking.”

“And then you would still get no explanation whatsoever.”

His eyes gleamed. “A fair point.” He shrugged those broad shoulders. “Then there is nothing for it than that I keep you here until you tell me the truth.”

Merryn glanced around. He was going to keep her imprisoned in his bedroom? The big tester bed, so wide, so inviting, seemed to mock her. She remembered the cool smoothness of the sheets and the yielding softness of the mattress. For one scalding moment she had a vision of Garrick’s naked body bearing hers down into that silken embrace, of his hands against her bare skin, of his caresses … She looked from the bed to Garrick. He raised his brows a fraction of an inch and Merryn felt her body suffuse with heat.

“You could read your book,” he said gently, “to pass the time.” He held out her copy of Mansfield Park to her.

“Thank you,” Merryn said. She put out a hand to take it. He held on to it. She gave it a little tug. Garrick allowed her gesture to bring him a step closer to her. Their fingers were practically touching now on the deep red cover, hers slender and pale, his tanned and strong. She remembered his touch against her cheek and closed her eyes on a long shiver.

He took the final step. They were very close now. He was frowning, his gaze fierce beneath the dark brows. And then he leaned closer and sniffed her, delicately, as though she were a flower.

“Bluebells,” he muttered. He shook his head, sniffed again; looked up again, incredulous. His gaze had narrowed to an intense black stare.

“Have you been sleeping in my bed?” he demanded.

“I …” Suddenly Merryn’s mouth was dry and her wits seemed to have gone a-begging. “Yes, I have …” She licked her lips and tasted dust. His gaze had gone to her mouth and fastened there, his eyes darkening with an intensity that had her stomach knotting.

“An extraordinary intimacy,” he murmured.

Merryn had never been kissed but she knew with an instinct deep as time itself that in another moment Garrick Farne would kiss her, cobwebs and all. The fierce heat she could see in his eyes trapped and held her. Her heart hammered.

He closed the remaining distance between them and his lips brushed hers. Soft, so soft, and barely a touch at all and yet the caress seemed to awaken something fierce and burning inside her. Her head spun. She could smell his masculine scent and for some reason it made her knees tremble. Her whole body was alight with a sensation she had never experienced. Her lips parted on a little gasp of shock.

Garrick stood back, a look of stunned surprise on his face. Merryn seized the moment. She grabbed Mansfield Park from out of his hand and hit him squarely with it on the side of his head. Garrick gave an oath. The spine of the book was fragile and the pages came loose, showering him in paper like confetti, blinding him for a moment. It was all that Merryn needed. She whisked through the door and out into the passage. The key was in the outside of the lock. She turned it. And then she ran.

CHAPTER TWO

“POINTER,” GARRICK SAID, sitting at his father’s desk the following morning, “do you think it would be possible to break into Farne House? Is it vulnerable to intruders?”

“Your grace?” The butler sounded faintly anxious.

“I only ask, you understand,” Garrick said, “because I found a strange female in my room last night.”

“Lady Harriet—” the butler began.

“Ah, yes,” Garrick said. He had packed Harriet and her chaperone off to stay with his mother in the country. Since the Dowager Duchess’s household would be in deep mourning for the foreseeable future, this seemed punishment enough for the promiscuous minx.

“Pray do not admit Lady Harriet to my presence again, Pointer,” he said. “Not under any circumstances.”

“No, your grace.” Pointer sounded subdued. “I did try to stop the lady but she was the late Duke’s ward and is much given to following her own desires.”

“She is indeed,” Garrick said. “Lady Harriet can be very persuasive. But this other woman—”

He stopped. What could he say?

I found a woman under my bed. She was small, with blue eyes that glow like agates and pale golden hair like a swatch of silk. She smelled of bluebells. I kissed her and she tasted of dust and innocence, and I have never wanted to bed a woman more in my life …

No, decidedly he could not tell Pointer his thoughts. Such vivid fantasies had no place in the life of a Duke shackled to duty and responsibility. Nevertheless Garrick shifted as he remembered the shape of the girl’s lips beneath his, the tiny gasp she had given when he kissed her, the shocking sensation of wanting to catch her in his arms and tumble her onto his bed and strip those cobwebbed clothes from her to discover the pleasures of her body beneath. He wanted to taste that tempting mouth again, to kiss her senseless. He felt his body harden into arousal.

Hell and the devil.

Pointer cleared his throat and Garrick jumped.

“Your grace …”

“Pointer?” Garrick said.

“Perhaps she was one of the servants, your grace, come to make sure you were comfortable,” Pointer said. He looked shifty. “I will ask the housekeeper to tell the maids not to trouble you.”

“That would be appreciated,” Garrick said. He knew his intruder had not been a servant. She had spoken with the instinctive confidence of a lady regardless of her pretense to be a waif from the streets. This morning he had found other evidence of occupation in his bedroom, too. There were the charred remains of a letter curling in the grate. There was a stick of striped candy on the dresser, wrapped in a twist of paper. He had found that rather endearing. There were even some female unmentionables neatly folded on a shelf in the wardrobe. Those had given him pause. How long had she been making free with his property and sleeping in his bed?

Pointer was waiting. Garrick sighed. “To return to my original question. Is the house secure?”

“I will check, your grace.” Pointer sounded very stiff at the suggestion that he was not in control of every aspect of security at Farne House. “If there is nothing more, your grace, I shall go and do so at once …” Garrick knew the butler was mortally offended. They had already disagreed once that morning. The first thing Pointer had offered to do after breakfast was to visit the employment bureau in order to recruit more staff to open up Farne House again. When Garrick had told him that he did not intend to use Farne House as his London home, he had thought Pointer might well burst with disapproval.

“But, your grace—” the butler had forgotten himself sufficiently to protest “—Farne House is the … the flagship of your Dukedom, the very pinnacle of your position! It is the feather in your cap, the summit of your status—”

“Farne House is ugly, old, draughty and expensive,” Garrick had said. “I do not care for it, Pointer. I shall not be entertaining, nor do I have a Duchess who requires a social setting. I will return to my own house in Charles Street as soon as I have set my father’s affairs in order.”

“Charles Street!” Pointer had said, as though Garrick had suggested he would be returning to the London stews. “That may have done very well for you when you were the Marquis of Northesk, your grace, but you are the Duke now. You have a dignity to uphold. Your father—” He had fallen silent as Garrick had pinned him with a very hard look.

“I,” Garrick had said, “am not my father, Pointer.”

Now he waited as Pointer retreated, outrage evident in every stiff line of his figure.

When the door had closed behind the butler, Garrick turned back to the desk and sorted methodically through the papers, making a note of the people he needed to contact and the actions he needed to take. Regardless of the dislike in which he had held his father—actually, hatred would probably be a better word—he had to give the late Duke credit for being extremely well organized. All the papers were in order, the income from the Farne estates was up-to-date and clearly notated and everything appeared to run like a smoothly oiled machine, a tribute to the late Duke’s rather vulgar grasping after every last penny that could be squeezed from his lands.

The clock on the mantel chimed twelve. Suddenly restless, Garrick got up and walked across to the dirty window. Dusty drapes shuttered the room. His mother, who might well have taken Farne House in hand, had not been to London for years. Tired of her husband’s famously indiscreet infidelities, she had become a dowager before her time and had retired to a house in Sussex. Garrick wondered vaguely how she would greet the arrival of the ungovernable Harriet on her doorstep. No doubt she would have the vapors. It was her usual mode of response to any crisis.

Outside the day was bright and clear, the sort of November morning that had slanting sunlight and scurrying white clouds. Garrick felt as though he were trapped here in this cobwebbed mausoleum. He wanted to take his stallion and ride out, not in the park among the chattering crowds, but somewhere wild and empty where he and the beast could both let go of all restraint. He had lived abroad for many years and had a taste for empty spaces and the hot blue skies of Portugal and Spain. And though he had been back in London for over a year, still the city felt cramped and cold and strangely repressive to a man who only really thrived in the open air.

Duty called him back to the pile of estate papers. He was Duke of Farne now and regardless of how disappointing he was as upholder of the family dignity, he could not escape his responsibilities. He had had that drummed into him since he was a child. He strode back to the desk. In his study in the house on Charles Street he had plenty of work waiting, too, research relating to his academic studies into seventeenth-century astronomy, documents to translate for the War Office. He had worked for Earl Bathurst, the Secretary of State for War, during his time in exile. He had also done plenty of other, less official, work for the government as well. It was one of the reasons that his father had raged against him, the heir to the Dukedom of Farne, trying and consistently failing to get himself killed in the service of his country. But what was he to do? For years he had carried the burden of taking a life, that of Stephen Fenner. He had tried to give his own in reparation, but the gods appeared uninterested in taking it.

He picked up his pen. He put it down again. What he really wanted to do, he found, was to discover the identity of the woman who had penetrated his house and his defenses, his midnight visitor, she of the vivid blue eyes and the porcelain fair skin. She had run from him like a fairy-tale Cinderella.

He wandered over to the oak bookcases that lined two walls of the study. Here he paused, the hairs on the back of his neck rising with a curious feeling of awareness. Someone else had perused these shelves, and recently. There were tiny marks in the dust, as though someone had carefully drawn out the books and replaced them without wanting to leave a trace.

He turned back to the desk. Had she been rifling through the papers here, too? If so, what could have been her purpose?

He wondered how, in the whole of London, he might find one elusive lady. There were always the inquiry agents, he supposed, though he could give them precious little to work on. A physical description, based on all the things he had found so seductive about her, would not be particularly helpful.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Garrick resumed his work, untying the red ribbon that held the next set of estate papers.

“Title to the estate of Fenners in the County of Dorset …”

Garrick felt chilled. Icy memory trickled down his spine. He had had no idea that his father had bought up the Fenner estates. He ripped the ribbon away and sifted through the papers. His father, it seemed, had purchased not only the house of Fenners but also the land and all associated coal-mining rights. He had done so ten years previously when the estate had been broken up after the last Earl had died. The mining had proved lucrative; it had brought in a sum approaching a hundred thousand pounds.

The cold hardened inside Garrick, deep and dark. His father had profited by the death of Stephen Fenner and the subsequent extinction of the Earldom. While he had been trying to atone for Fenner’s death his father had been turning it to financial advantage. How utterly typical it was of the late Duke to act with such vile cupidity. Garrick felt sick and revolted. It was intolerable to inherit an estate that had come to him through violence and bloodshed, even more so when it was blood that he himself had shed. With a sudden burst of anger he brought his hand down and scattered the deeds across the floor.

He threw himself down into his chair and tried to think. He had been back in society for fifteen months, long enough to know that the eldest of the Earl of Fenner’s daughters was the famed hostess Joanna, Lady Grant, married to the equally famous Arctic explorer Alex Grant. The middle sister, Teresa Darent, was notorious, a widow who had run through four husbands already. Naturally enough he had not met either Lady Grant or Lady Darent socially; they would scarcely invite to their balls and routs the man who had murdered their brother in a duel. Ton society might be extraordinarily flexible, but it was not that flexible. He thought there was also a third girl, the youngest, but he knew little of her. She was unmarried, reputedly a bluestocking, almost a recluse, if gossip was to be believed.

Garrick reached for pen and ink and began to write. After he had finished the letter, sealed it and addressed it, he picked up again the papers relating to the Fenner estate but after a moment he let them drift from his hand down onto the desk before him.

Stephen Fenner had been his best friend at Eton and Oxford. He had been a rake, a gamester and a noted whip. His handsome face and winning charm had allowed him to cut a swath through the bedrooms and boudoirs of a number of ton ladies. It had been amusing to be one of Stephen’s friends, part of a dazzling raffish crowd who had lived for pleasure. Garrick had been seduced by the glamour of it all. It was such a far cry from the life of service and obligation that he had been raised to embrace. But then Stephen had chosen Garrick’s bride as his latest conquest and friendship had disintegrated into betrayal and disgrace …

There was a knock at the door; Pointer, Garrick thought, had evidently overcome his disapproval sufficiently to resume his duties.

“I have ascertained that a window in the east wing has been forced, your grace,” the butler said, looking with disfavor at the scattered pile of papers. “It is possible that an intruder may have found ingress into the house that way.”

“She broke in through a window,” Garrick said. “I see. Thank you, Pointer.”

“I have made the house secure,” Pointer finished grandly, “so your grace need have no further concerns.”

“I am confident to leave the matter of household security entirely in your hands, Pointer,” Garrick said. He held out the letter. “If you would be so kind as to see this is delivered to the offices of Churchward and Churchward, the lawyers, in Holborn please?”

“Of course, your grace,” Pointer said, bowing with exquisite precision and proffering a silver tray on which Garrick could place the missive.

“And then,” Garrick said, “I would like you to find me an inquiry agent.”

Pointer’s long nose twitched with shock. “An inquiry agent, your grace?” He repeated, as though Garrick had asked for something so outrageous he had no idea how to respond.

“Your esteemed father,” he added, “would never have required such a person, your grace.”

“I know,” Garrick said, grinning. “You are going to have to get used to some changes, I fear, Pointer. If you could expedite the matter,” he added, “that would be appreciated. There is someone I need to find urgently.”

When he had found his midnight bibliophile, Garrick thought, he was going discover exactly what her business was with him. And this time he would not let her run away.

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR CUSTOM, Lord Selfridge. It was a pleasure to be able to provide you with the information you required.”

Merryn sat in a dark corner of the waiting room while her associate, Tom Bradshaw, ushered the peer toward the stairs. Selfridge barely noticed her and certainly did not recognize her. Merryn would have been astonished if he had. In her daily life, as the frightfully studious bluestocking sister of Joanna, Lady Grant, celebrated ton hostess, she was practically invisible. She seldom attended the high society events that both her sisters loved and when she did she hardly ever danced. Those people who took the trouble to engage her in conversation usually regretted it because she was only interested in erudite subjects and chose to have no small talk. Most young men were afraid of her, bored by her, or both. She was known as the Simple Ton by those society fashionables who deplored her bookishness and her lack of social graces.

Such insignificance made it far easier for her to live as she wished, pursuing an interest in all manner of scholarly activities on the one hand and working for Tom on the other. If her sisters had known that she worked for a living they would probably have had the vapors. If they had known she was employed by an inquiry agent the strongest smelling salts would not have been able to revive them. And if they discoverd that sometimes she stayed out at night to do her work and invented fictitious friends to cover for her … But then, Merryn thought, they never would find out. They would not guess because such thoughts were unthinkable.

Except … except that she had made a mistake last night. It was the sort of mistake that could lead to the unmasking of what she liked to think of as her secret life. She had committed the cardinal sin of being caught, and by Garrick Farne, of all people. If there was one time that she should have been particularly careful, it was when she was working against the man who had killed her brother and ruined her family. But it was too late now. Farne had seen her. Farne had kissed her. A little of ripple of disquiet, mixed with something more deep and disturbing, edged down her spine.

“Are you coming in or are we to talk out here?”

Tom was holding his office door open for her, his head tilted inquiringly to one side, eyes bright, a smile curling his lips. He was cocky, but Merryn liked him for it. Tom, the son of a stevedore who had worked on the Thames loading ships, still kept his offices within a stone’s throw of the river. He was one of the most successful inquiry agents in London, finding everything from missing heirs to servants who had absconded with the family silver. She had worked alongside him for the past two years.

Merryn uncurled herself from her seat and preceded Tom into the office. There was a chair but she knew from experience that it was uncomfortable so she remained standing. Tom propped himself against the edge of his desk.

“So did you find any papers relating to the duel?” Tom said. “Any servants paid off around that time, any proof of a cover-up, anything suspicious at all?”

“I’m very well, thank you, Tom,” Merryn said tartly. “How are you?”

Tom grinned, his teeth a flash of white in his face. “You know I have no manners.”

“Clearly,” Merryn said. She looked at him. No one would mistake Tom Bradshaw for anything other than what he was: the self-made son of a working man. The well-cut clothes could not conceal his innate toughness.

“No,” she said. She turned her face away. “I didn’t find anything.”

Three weeks previously Tom had come to her with some information that he had said he thought would interest her and when she had read it the shock and outrage had gripped Merryn like a vise. Tom’s information had been a tiny entry from an obscure local Dorset newspaper. He said that he had found it quite by accident when he had been working on a different case. The paper was twelve years old and there, between references to pig rustling and theft at a country fair, had been the report of an inquest into the death of Stephen Fenner.

Merryn could remember the piece word for word. She thought she would never forget it.

“The coroner at the inquest into the death of Stephen, Viscount Fenner, reported that there had been two bullets in the victim’s body, one in the shoulder and one in the back …” And then, farther down the page: “Daniel Scrope, gamekeeper on the Starcross estate, reported hearing an altercation followed by the firing of three shots …”

Merryn shook a little now as she remembered how she had frozen where she had sat, her gaze riveted to the tiny shred of news that contradicted all the official reports of her brother’s death. Before he had fled the country to escape the exigencies of the law, Garrick Farne had left a statement giving details of the duel. He had sworn that it had occurred over the elopement of his best friend, Stephen Fenner, with Kitty, Garrick’s wife of only a month. Two shots had been fired, Farne had maintained, one by Stephen, who had missed, and the other by himself, which had proved fatal. The doctor and the two men’s seconds had supported his statement. Farne’s second had even claimed that Fenner had fired early, an unforgivable piece of cowardice further blackening Stephen’s name.

The case had never gone to trial and public opinion had been very sympathetic to Garrick Farne. He and Kitty had been married for barely a month. Stephen Fenner had clearly played his best friend false, seducing Garrick’s wife, trying to entice her to run off with him and compounding his deceit by attempting to kill Garrick by firing before the flag was dropped. Besides, a duel was an affair of honor and society understood the rules that governed such cases. Garrick Farne was generally felt to have acted regrettably but understandably.

That had been appalling enough to Merryn, unforgivable, heinous, but when she had discovered that there had been three shots and two bullets in Stephen’s body, she had been consumed with grief and anger. Garrick Farne had lied, there had been no duel, only an execution, and he should have hanged for murder. She had hated Garrick before, hated what he had done, despaired over the way his actions had wrought such unhappiness and ruin on her family. Now, though, her anger was transformed. If the truth had been buried she would dig it out. She would show the world that Garrick was a liar and a criminal, and she would strip him of all honor and respect. She would find the proof that would mean his life was forfeit.

Merryn had searched like a woman possessed to find any other evidence such as the original inquest report, the findings of the doctor who had conducted it, the original witness statements of the seconds who had allegedly been present at what she now suspected was a fictitious duel. She had drawn a blank. All papers were lost. All witnesses had vanished. Merryn had been disillusioned but hardly surprised. She knew that the Dukes of Farne were rich enough and powerful enough to pay their way out of such a scandal. But she could not give up now. If there were the slightest chance that she could prove that Garrick Farne had killed her brother in cold blood then she would expose him. She wanted him to lose everything that had been built on his lie. She had lost so much when Garrick had killed Stephen. She wanted him to understand how that felt.

“You found nothing,” Tom repeated. He was looking annoyed, so irritated, in fact, that Merryn wondered if he might secretly have a client interested in her findings. It seemed unlikely but not impossible.

“You did search everywhere?” Tom persisted.

Merryn frowned. “Of course I searched everywhere. I’m not an amateur. I looked in the study, the library, the bedrooms—”

“In the bedrooms?” Tom said.

“I thought there might be papers concealed in a book,” Merryn said.

Tom gave her a quizzical look. “I repeat, in the bedrooms?”

“People read in bed,” Merryn said, a shade defensively.

“Do they?” Tom seemed surprised. “I don’t. I have more exciting things to do.”

Merryn rolled her eyes. “You and Garrick Farne both.”

Tom raised his brows. “What?”

“I was under the bed,” Merryn said, “when the Duke had a visitor. A voluptuous and eager lady called Harriet.”

Tom pursed his lips on a soundless whistle. “Harriet Knight, his late father’s ward?”

“I have no idea,” Merryn said tartly. There was a squirm of something in her belly that felt disconcertingly like … jealousy? “They were obviously beyond needing surnames,” she added.

“Poor you,” Tom said. “There’s nothing worse than voyeurism.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Merryn said. “Fortunately he threw her out before things became too embarrassing for me.”

Tom started to laugh. “Farne threw an eager seductress out of his bedchamber?” he said. “He really has changed. I assume you were able to get away when he fell asleep?”

“No,” Merryn said. She hesitated. It probably was not wise to tell Tom of her encounter with Garrick Farne. He would be furious because she had compromised not only her own safety but also his business. If Garrick were to discover her identity somehow and start asking questions he would discover that she worked for Tom and a powerful enemy like the Duke of Farne would be very dangerous for Tom’s livelihood. Besides, she was not sure she wished to relive the encounter. The unexpected affinity she had felt for Garrick, the pleasure of their quick-fire conversation, the sweetness that had ambushed her when his lips had touched hers in that infinitely tender caress … She had not expected to feel any of those emotions. She should not.

Tom was watching her. He was quick; he’d seen her hesitation.

“Well?” he said.

“Unfortunately I sneezed,” Merryn said, “and he dragged me out from under the bed.”

Tom’s reaction was predictable. There was a moment of silence and then he exploded. “Bloody hell, Merryn—”

“I know,” Merryn said hastily. “But I didn’t tell him who I was, or what I was doing there. You don’t need to worry. He doesn’t know I work for you. No one does.”

Tom clenched his fists. “Merryn,” he said, “the work you do is supposed to be secret. The clue is in the word.”

“Of course,” Merryn said quickly. “Sorry—”

Tom made a visible effort to get himself under control. He rubbed his forehead. “I warned you it was dangerous to go there,” he said. “I told you to be careful.”

“I was,” Merryn said defensively. “It was just bad luck.”

Tom gave a sigh. “Well, you have not been hauled up in Bow Street so evidently you got away,” he said. His tone had eased a little. He even managed to give her a half smile. “Did you kick him in the balls and run away?”

“Something of the sort,” Merryn said. She wondered how she had managed to retain any shred of innocence associating with Tom Bradshaw. Her vocabulary had certainly been broadened, if nothing else.

Merryn had never been quite sure how she and Tom had come to be as close as brother and sister. She had first met him three years before when he had broken into a house where she was staying. She had found him rifling through her host’s study and had held him at sword point—there had been a medieval claymore on the wall—until he had revealed to her that the purpose of his illicit visit was to reunite the government with some very sensitive papers pertaining to the war. She had been frankly intrigued by Bradshaw’s business and had thought it would be the perfect line of work to get into. She had a passion for justice, too little money, too much time and nothing to do that remotely interested her. Being a debutante was a tedious business; all the men she met wanted blandness in a woman, a pattern-card wife. Merryn, in contrast, did not want a man at all. She had never met one she preferred to her favorite books.