Chapter Seven

Heavens! Two kisses in two days! Cecily thought, before Alex’s lips met hers, blotting out all other concerns save him. Her hands came up of their own accord to clutch his shoulders, and her head tilted to accommodate him, while a sweet, aching sensation began to spread through her. Mindlessly she pressed up against him, and felt his arms go about her, pulling her close against him as the kiss lengthened, deepened. His mouth opened over hers, and this time there was no revulsion. This time her mouth opened in response, and when she felt his tongue touch hers she melted against him. There was no time, there was no place. There was only now, only him, as much a part of her as she was of him, together, inseparable, forever.

Alex lifted his head and gazed down at Cecily’s flushed cheeks, her closed eyes, her lips, swollen from his kisses, parted invitingly. Almost he took up the invitation and the challenge that they offered, but that little alarm bell jangled in his head again. God’s teeth, what was he doing? He was supposed to be investigating her for possible involvement in a dangerous conspiracy; he had just found her in a suspicious place, a place where no girl of her station should be. No matter that her explanation was plausible. Without proof, he couldn’t accept it. He’d gotten soft, that’s what had happened. He’d lost his instinct for survival, the edge that had kept him alive in a dangerous world, a world no less dangerous now that he was in England. Until he knew better, Cecily was the enemy, a woman engaged to one man, yet kissing another. And he had thought about trusting her? He must be mad.

Cecily’s eyes fluttered open, and then closed again. She didn’t want to leave this new world she had found; she wanted to stay, safe and warm, in his arms forever. She wanted him to kiss her again. She tightened her grip about his neck and lifted her face, nestling against him confidingly. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes again. Alex was regarding her coolly, his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips held tight. “Is that how you kiss your fiancé?” he said.

Cecily recoiled. “Wh—what?”

He pushed her away and rose. “Did you enjoy kissing a rake? God, you like to play with fire, don’t you?”

Cecily stared at him in bewilderment as he strode around the room. “I wasn’t playing!”

A mocking smile spread across Alex’s face. “But I was.” Cecily recoiled again. “My dear, I can have any woman I want. As I believe I just proved.”

Cecily rose abruptly, her torn frock falling unnoticed to the floor. “I think I want to go home.”

“By all means, my dear.” Alex made her a mock bow. “Parsons will see to your clothes.” And with that he turned and strode away, into his study, so that he would no longer have to see the hurt, blind look in her eyes. It was better for her that it end this way, and absolutely necessary for him. She saw a side of him that didn’t exist anymore, if it ever had. If he gave into his impulses and crushed her against him, kissing her, keeping her safe from the dangerous world outside, he would end by hurting her. He was not the man she thought.

Parsons came into the study a little while later to see Alex standing by the mantle, staring into the fire. “They’re gone, sir.”

“I know. I heard.” Alex’s tone was clipped, and Parsons turned away. He knew his master well in this mood, and knew enough to avoid him. There was, however, one thing that needed saying.

“Sir,” he said, and Alex looked at him from beneath his brows. “You got a problem.”

Surprisingly, Alex did not rip up at him. “I know, Parsons.” He sighed and kicked at the fender. “God’s teeth, I know.” Bending his head, he stared into the fire again, not acknowledging Parsons as he left the room. He had a problem, indeed. What did he do now?

 

“Cece!” Diana bounced into the bedchamber where Cecily was lying upon her bed. “Oh, wait until you see the bonnet I bought, it is a Kendal bonnet, like Princess Charlotte’s, and it is the most charming thing! Is your headache gone? Heavens, why are you wearing that old rag?”

Cecily put her hand over her eyes. She didn’t know how she had made it home from St. Clair’s lodgings. Nor did she know, or care, if anyone had seen her enter her house. A blessed numbness had wrapped around her, sparing her, for now, the pain of rejection. “Diana, do go away.”

“Heavens, someone is in the mopes today!” Diana bounced upon the bed, swinging her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees in a most unladylike manner. “We had the most fun today. We met Mr. Carstairs, oh, and Lord Edgewater, too. He asked for you specifically, and when we told him you were ill he seemed quite concerned—”

“Diana,” Cecily interrupted, leaning up on her elbow, “have you ever been kissed?”

“What?” Diana stared at her. “Of course not, silly, I’m not fast! Oh, of course there was Jack Waverly, but that hardly counts, I was only ten at the time. Why?” Diana’s eyes became disconcertingly shrewd. “Who’s been kissing you? Oh, no, don’t tell me! Edgewater! Oh, Cece, it’s so romantic! What was it like? Tell me everything!”

“It wasn’t much, Diana.” Cecily laid her hand over her eyes again. Diana, for all her surface silliness, could be shrewd when she wished to be, and could usually detect Cecily’s falsehoods. “I don’t know why the novel writers make so much of it.” But she did, she thought, turning her head into the pillow. She did, and that was the problem.

“Cecily, are you feeling quite the thing?” Diana’s voice was filled with real concern. “You’ve gone all pale.”

“No, my headache is worse.”

“Poor Cece. You should take a sleeping draught. I’ll just go tell Annie to prepare one for you, shall I?”

“Yes, thank you,” Cecily mumbled, glad to be left alone again. Sleep would be welcome, to release her, if only for a time, from the memory of the last hour. She had been an utter fool. How could she live with herself now?

She covered her eyes again, as if to shut out the memories, but they were there, tantalizing, seductive, painful. She had been kissed, and had quite willingly kissed back, a man known to be a rake, a man to whom the kiss had meant nothing. What was worse, she had actually liked it, until the moment when she had opened her eyes and had faced hard reality. The kiss had meant nothing to St. Clair. He had, for some reason of his own, quite callously used her, and she had allowed it. Had allowed him liberties, in fact, that had revolted her with her fiancé. Good Lord, how could she ever face Edgewater again, when she preferred the kiss of another man to his?

Confused, she rolled into a tight ball, her pillow over her head. It had been foolish of her to ask advice of Diana, but then, who could she ask? Certainly not her mother. How could she explain that she had somehow turned from a proper young lady into a wanton woman, and with the wrong man? She didn’t understand it herself. Apparently there were depths in her, unknown places she’d never realized existed. How she was going to deal with that knowledge, she didn’t know.

One thing was certain, she thought, sitting up. Devastating though this was, she wasn’t going to hide from the world. Not unless St. Clair chose to disclose her behavior. Though her feelings towards him at the moment were decidedly hostile, even she doubted he’d do such a thing. No, she would keep her shame to herself, consider it a lesson hard-learned, and go on from there. The adventurous Cecily would be put aside; the very proper Lady Cecily would take her place. She would live her life as she had planned. And never, never, would she forgive St. Clair.

 

It was hell being sober.

Alex stropped his razor in front of his shaving mirror. His eyes were clear; his skin firm, with healthy color. The face that looked back at him, however, held the same contempt it had when he had been at his most dissolute. In the past few weeks he had given up his former pastimes with nary a trace of regret. He had bid his mistress farewell, neither lost nor won at cards, and remained remarkably abstemious. What he had done instead, though, made those activities pale in comparison. He was sick to death of it, sick to his soul, and with all his heart he wished for a better life. What he lacked was the knowledge to achieve it.

“God’s teeth, but I look like hell,” he muttered, lathering his face.

“You been through hell, sir, if I may say so,” Parsons said, laying out the biscuit-colored pantaloons and the coat of green superfine that Alex would wear that day.

“No, you may not say so.” Alex’s voice was absent, as he scraped the lather off his cheeks.

“No, sir. But you have been, all the same.”

Alex wiped the razor on a towel, and looked at Parsons in the mirror, his eyes keen. “So how do you suggest I get out of it, Parsons?”

“You could try praying, sir. Or,” he said, over Alex’s snort of derision, “you could try believing in something. Not everyone is treacherous, or a liar.”

“Prove it.”

“Lady Cecily isn’t.”

“Ha. She’s a woman, isn’t she? Women and treachery are inextricably linked, Parsons.”

“No, sir, not this one.” Parsons stood his ground, as Alex raised the towel to wipe the remaining lather from his face. “This isn’t France. You care for Lady Cecily—”

“The devil I do!”

“—and it was an orphanage she went to. Matron there speaks highly of her.”

Alex laid down the towel and turned to glare at him. “Just what are you trying to say, Parsons?”

“I think you’re wrong about her, sir. Just because she wants to help the poor doesn’t mean she wants revolution, neither. I don’t think Lady Cecily’s involved in anything.”

“Nor do I,” Alex said, and, as he did so, a great weight lifted from his heart. He didn’t believe her guilty. I am going soft, he thought, without censure. He had learned to trust his instincts. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, they were telling him that he could trust Cecily. And that he had wronged her badly.

Alex frowned as he pulled his shirt over his head and began the complicated business of tying his neckcloth. He had indeed wronged her, and how he would ever make amends, he didn’t know. He wanted to try, though, and the first step would be to inform the Home Office of her innocence. Then he would see.

Alex’s heart was light as he stepped out for Bainbridge House. For the first time in many a year, he could see hope for the future. His mood didn’t darken, even when he was shown into Bainbridge’s study and Bainbridge, his face sober, rose to greet him. “I’m glad you’ve come,” Bainbridge said, as they settled into comfortable leather armchairs in front of the fire. “There have been some new developments.”

“Have there?” Alex crossed his legs, quite at ease. No matter what he learned today, he was determined not to allow it to affect him. His days of spying were done. It was time to seek another life, with, perhaps, a girl with honey-hued curls and golden eyes, who was an intriguing mixture of innocence and sensuality. It was time to move on. “Before you tell me, however, I’d like to tell you the results of my investigation.”

“So soon?” Bainbridge raised an eyebrow.

“We rakes work fast,” Alex said, with his charming, self-deprecating smile. “I am convinced Lady Cecily is innocent.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Alex went on, ignoring Bainbridge’s frown. “I’ve had her followed, and she does nothing out of the ordinary. Little out of the ordinary, I should say. She does visit an orphanage, to teach the children to read. I’d appreciate it, by the by, if you’d keep that to yourself.”

“Are you certain that is where she goes?”

“Positive. I’ve had Parsons following her. He confirmed it. Why?” he asked, belatedly struck by the serious look in Bainbridge’s eyes. “Do you know aught else of her?”

“I told you there have been new developments.” Bainbridge rose and crossed to the mantle, his fist to his mouth. “Damn, this is hard. You’ve fallen for the girl, haven’t you?”

“Devil a bit,” Alex said, cheerfully. “But I will admit I’m no longer objective where she’s concerned. If you wish to continue your investigation, you’ll have to find someone else. Not that it will do you any good. She’s innocent.”

“We have a good idea what the aim of the conspiracy is,” Bainbridge said, abruptly.

“Oh?”

“We’ve heard from other sources that someone is searching for a sharpshooter, and is offering a good sum of money.”

Alex went very still. “God’s teeth. Assassination.”

“It looks that way.”

“How do you know it’s the same conspiracy?”

“Because of the name of the person asking.” Bainbridge sat again, his eyes grave. “It’s a man. We have a description of him. He’s said to be about forty, short, balding on top. His nose apparently was broken at one time. Otherwise, there’s little remarkable about him. Except his name.” Bainbridge paused. “He goes by the name of Randall.”