They found Troy scribbling away in the library. He was undismayed at the loss of the notebook pages—he was deep into another poem now, he declared—but was relieved to get his watch and ring back.
“Can’t think why anyone would bother to take my things,” he said as he slipped the ring onto his finger. “Jemima would be a more likely candidate—she travels about with all sorts of valuable fripperies.”
Bryce eyed the fine pearl necklet that adorned her throat. He’d purchased enough fripperies himself—for various deserving ladies—to know the value of the piece. Not that the pearls could compete with Jemima’s pale skin for beauty or luster.
She was frowning at her brother. “Yes, but I never leave my things lying about, Terry. I hide them in a very clever, secret place.”
“Which would be?” Bryce coaxed. He was vastly interested in all Jemima’s secret places.
“No longer a secret if I told you, sir,” she responded with a sniff.
Then, with boyish, bloodthirsty enthusiasm, Troy asked Bryce for the particulars of the murder. Bryce settled into an armchair, poured them each a glass of claret, and launched into the tale.
Jemima drifted out through the open French window, murmuring that she would take a stroll in the garden. Not that anyone appeared to notice her departure. An air of good-natured male camaraderie had already pervaded the room—which pleased her unaccountably.
For some reason—and she chose not to examine this too closely—it was important that the two men grow to like each other. She knew Bryce thought her brother lacked a proper fraternal attitude and she suspected he hadn’t approved of Troy’s drunkenness last night. Nice judgment, that, coming from a notorious womanizer. But she wanted Bryce to appreciate the finer aspects of Terry’s makeup: his keen intellect—which he went to great lengths to obscure from some people—his wry sense of humor, and his easy charm. And she likewise wanted Terry to admire Bryce, although she hadn’t a clue as to why. Except that it was always good policy to be in charity with one’s host, and it appeared they would all be living under Bryce’s roof until the murder got sorted out.
She strolled around the house toward the gardens behind the colonnade and had only just stepped onto the brick walkway, when she spied Lovelace, sitting in a white dovecote. Once again there were tearstains on the girl’s pearly cheeks.
Jemima tried to sneak away—she’d had her fill of melodrama—but Lovelace caught sight of her among the peonies and called out, “Lady J! Please, sit with me.”
Jemima sighed and then made her way to the trellised folly.
“Any news of my family at the inn?” the girl asked softly as Jemima sat beside her.
“There was some news, but not from the inn. The magistrate’s son saw your family’s coach late yesterday afternoon; it was heading south, toward Grantley.”
“Grantley?” Lovelace gasped. “They were supposed to be going to London. Papa had booked us into a theater in the West End.” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, this is not possible.”
“Please don’t cry, Lovelace.” Jemima leaned forward and rubbed her consolingly on the back. “I know this is very difficult for you. Shall I ask Troy to sit with you and read you some of his poems?”
The girl drew back with a smoldering expression on her face. “Your brother is not a very nice person, Lady J. He called me a rattle-pated featherwit and said if I was going to prance about like the Queen of Sheba, then it was no wonder everyone went off and left me.”
“Oh, dear.” Jemima tried not to grin. “Did he really say that?” She knew Troy was not at his most tolerant after a night of carousing. “I’m sure he was only teasing you. He has three sisters, you see, and teasing comes naturally to him.”
Lovelace looked slightly mollified. “I know I talk a great deal more than I should, Lady J.” Her eyes widened in dismay. “Oh! I forgot, you don’t like that name.”
“I’m getting used to it,” Jemima responded with a sigh. Bryce seemed to have latched on to it in his perverse fashion, though there were times it sounded almost like an endearment on his lips.
Lovelace continued her snuffling discourse. “It’s just that I… I become nervous around strangers. Before last night, I’d never sat down to supper with a titled lady and a gentleman as polished as Mr. Bryce. My mama just clouts me on the ear when I start in to talking and ‘tooting my own horn,’ as she calls it.”
“My dear, I promise you neither Mr. Bryce nor I will clout you on the ear. My brother, however, I cannot answer for.”
Lovelace responded with a watery chuckle. It was the first sign she had given Jemima that she possessed any sense of humor at all.
“How did your parents come to be actors?” Jemima asked, hoping to distract the girl.
“Papa was tutor to an earl’s son near Norwich and Mama was the steward’s daughter. They ran off together—it was such a scandal.” Lovelace grinned slightly. “At first Papa wrote plays to support them. Then a theater owner in York asked him and Mama to perform in one of them.”
“I take it they were successful.”
“Oh, yes. They started their own troupe after a while. Papa is a wonderful playwright. And my parents were so looking forward to their first London production.” She sniffed. “But now everything has gone awry…. I only pray the theater manager hasn’t booked another play into the Orpheum.”
Jemima took up her hand. “I will ask Troy to write to him, if you like, explaining the delay in their arrival. My brother…has a certain influence in the city.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lovelace said. “I’m sorry I made such a scene at breakfast, but I have had an abiding passion for your brother ever since I read “The Crucible of Byzantium.” It was too oversetting to realize he had been sitting beside me the whole time, and never once mentioned who he was.”
Jemima gave the girl an encouraging smile. “You are in the public eye, Lovelace, so you know how people clamor after those who are…set apart. My brother does not like to capitalize on his name and often introduces himself as Terence Vale. He didn’t intend to deceive you. Now come inside and have your luncheon. We brought my luggage over from the inn, and if you are still here at dinnertime, you can wear one of my dresses. I have a rose-colored gown that would suit you perfectly.”
“I don’t want to have dinner with your brother.” Lovelace grumbled, for once immune to the temptation of appearing in a flattering shade of pink. “He makes me even more nervous than you or Mr. Bryce. And then I will begin to chatter on and on.” She lowered her eyes. “And no one really cares to hear about my sorry little life.”
Oh, dear, Jemima thought. Lovelace had gone from monumental hubris to sniveling self-pity in less than twenty-four hours. It was the girl’s age, she knew, that caused it. The wild flights of fancy giving way to the deep valleys of despair. As much as she dreaded the dogged approach of middle age, Jemima vowed she wouldn’t be seventeen again, not on a bet.
“If you come along now,” she coaxed, “I’ll tell you a secret. When you are nervous around people, the surest thing is to ask them about themselves. That way, they think you charming and astute. And Troy is the perfect subject—he’ll natter on about himself forever if given half a chance.”
* * *
As Bryce concluded his tale of the murder and its subsequent aftermath, Troy rose from the desk and went to pour himself another glass of claret.
“Poor Lovelace,” he said as he resumed his seat. “She’s had a rotten time of it. I gave her quite a setdown this morning—I’m not very tolerant of other people’s weak natures. Still, she is a little beauty. Even if she has the brain of a peahen.”
Bryce smiled. “Some men might consider that an asset. And speaking of beauties…”
Troy looked up from the glass that he was twirling between his ink-stained fingers. “No, no, don’t say it. You needn’t tell me to mind my manners around Lovelace, old chap. I’m not in the petticoat line, not when it comes to veritable babes in the wood.”
“I wasn’t referring to Miss Wellesley. I meant your sister.”
“Jemima?”
“Of course, Jemima. Unless you have another sister hidden in the house. I find her to be quite…enchanting.”
“Jemima?”
A slight frown appeared on Bryce’s brow. “Stop saying it like that, Troy. You’d think your sister was an antidote.”
Troy shrugged. “She’s long past her last prayers, Bryce. Anyone can see that. And a good thing, too. I’d be desolated if some old sparky came along and whisked her off. She’s the best of sisters, and looks after everything for me. Here, now, I’ll tell you what. You know your way around women—if even half of what they say about you is true.” Troy gave him an especially speaking look. “Why don’t you spend some time with her, you know, do the pretty, dose her with a bit of charm. Poor old Jem could do with a bit of cheering up; she’s been rather glum lately, blue-deviled like I’ve never seen before—though I couldn’t tell you why.”
Bryce suspected the reason was sitting across from him in blond splendor, knocking back a glass of claret. But he couldn’t tell Troy that he, Jemima’s own brother, was likely the one who was sullying her spirits. One didn’t preach at one’s guests, especially when they were offering you carte blanche with their willowy, chestnut-haired sister.
It was clear that Troy was blind to any allure Jemima might possess and that he was likewise insensitive to her need for some kind of recognition. How wearing it must be for her to always be in the company of a self-indulgent genius, Bryce reflected. Though he didn’t much care for Troy’s florid poetry, he had a feeling history would judge the man quite differently. Poor old Jem, indeed. She, who couldn’t see her own worth beyond the bright light that fairly glistened off her brother.
* * *
By the time Jemima peeked into the library, the masculine bonhomie was as thick in the room as the smoke from the cigars the two men were enjoying. It was well past lunchtime—the ladies had been left to fend for themselves and had opted to dine outdoors, on the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house. Terry and Bryce were deep in the throes of reminiscence by the sound of things, and since they couldn’t see her through the cloud of smoke, Jemima decided to listen at the door.
“Eleanor Astoria? I remember her.” It was Troy’s voice. “Never say you had her after Bothwell?”
“I did indeed,” Bryce replied in a voice mellowed with claret. “She was a taking little thing.”
“Took Bothwell for all he was worth!”
There was the sound of hearty, deep-pitched laughter.
“And whatever happened to…oh, what was her name, the opera dancer from Clapham?”
“You mean Harriet Travers? She married some young lordling whose family shipped them off to Ireland in disgrace afterward.”
“And was she one of your conquests, Bryce?”
There was a slight pause. “Ireland is a very beautiful country.”
Troy gave a shout of laughter. “You mean you had her after she was married?”
“Before and after. Harriet’s lordling was a trifle…unexciting.”
Jemima stepped back from the door, and stood for some time unmoving on the hall carpet. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew. Beecham Bryce made no claims to being a saint. Quite the opposite in fact. But it was one thing to hear his exploits being recounted over tea by the insatiable gossips of the ton and quite another to hear the man himself bragging about them.
She wanted to pack up her newly arrived luggage and storm out of the house, but there was nowhere to go, except back to the inn. And when Terry came to fetch her, there would be a scene when she refused to return. What could she tell him, what excuse could she give? Bryce had not made any improper overtures to her. Oh, he had flirted with her, in his sardonic way, but that was a usual occurrence between men and women of the ton. No, Bryce had done nothing that would excuse her fleeing from his home. Nothing except confirm his reprehensible reputation—a reputation she was well aware of before she agreed to stay beneath his roof. But it was most curious that overhearing something she already knew to be true could still cut like a knife.
Behind the partially closed door, the two men began to move about. Jemima barely had time to slip into the front parlor before they emerged.
Troy was clapping Bryce on the back. “I might just take you up on that offer. I haven’t done any fly-fishing since Jem and I were in Scotland last summer.”
“Your sister might not wish to remain here,” Bryce remarked as they walked past her hiding place. “Not once the murder is solved.”
“Jem? She’s never any trouble. Follows where I lead, just like a faithful hound.”
It was a good thing the gentlemen were out of earshot when Jemima left her hiding place or they would have heard her say a most unladylike word.
Dinner was a subdued affair at best. Jemima had entered the drawing room only just ahead of the butler, who had come to announce dinner. During the meal she focused all her attention on Lovelace. Bryce was surprised by that development—the two ladies appeared quite in charity with each other. Lovelace seemed in a less ebullient mood than last night, and when she wasn’t conversing with Jemima, she addressed her male companions in a quiet voice, inquiring artlessly about their respective lives.
Jemima, however, continued to pointedly ignore the two men. By the time the custard tarts were carried in, Bryce decided it was time to draw her out.
“Lady Jemima,” he said, turning to her with an encouraging smile. “Your brother mentioned that you visited Scotland last summer.”
“Yes,” she said without looking up from her dessert.
“And did you enjoy your stay?”
“Yes.” Her spoon scraped against the porcelain dish.
“And how did you find the people to be?”
“Scottish, for the most part.”
She then turned away from him and asked Lovelace about the new play.
Bryce recognized a snub when he was handed one. He shot a questioning look toward Troy, who merely shrugged.
Since the lady would not converse, Bryce had to satisfy himself with watching her, which was not a hardship. She had appeared for dinner wearing a gown of pale gold satin that did wonderful things for her rounded bosom and her elegant white shoulders.
After dinner the men opted to take their port in the drawing room, as Bryce had done the night before. With some skillful navigation, Bryce managed to get Jemima out onto the terrace, leaving Troy to entertain a remarkably subdued Miss Wellesley.
“This is my favorite time of night,” he said, carrying his glass to the stone balustrade. He leaned back on his elbows, keeping a watchful eye on his guest, who was hovering just beyond the light that spilled from the drawing room, “I like to watch the sky turn from blue to gray to black—that slow, velvety letting go of light.”
“You are waxing very lyrical tonight,” Jemima remarked from the shadows. “Maybe you should take up poetry.” Her voice grew clipped. “But then you already have a full-time occupation that leaves you no time for other pursuits.”
“What’s this?” He moved away from his comfortable perch and headed in the direction of her voice. She was standing beneath a clematis vine that had coiled its way up one of the lilacs that overhung the terrace. “What has put you so out of twig?”
He reached out to touch her arm, and she backed away until the stone wall stopped her retreat.
“I—I shouldn’t have come out here,” she said haltingly. “I only wanted to give my brother and Lovelace a chance to mend their fences. They got off to a bad start this morning.”
“Yes, and you and I got off to a rather good start. So what has happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm,” he muttered. “When women say ‘nothing’ in that tone of voice, it generally spells trouble.”
“You would know,” she said. “Being such an expert on my sex.”
He moved a little way beyond her, again leaning against the balustrade. In slow increments he decreased the distance between them. Lateral moves, he knew from long experience, were often more effective with skittish creatures then direct ones.
“I’d think you were vexed with me, Jemima,” he said evenly, “but I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve barely said word to your brother either.”
“I’m not vexed with anyone.” She put her chin up, and he had a lovely view of her profile, the straight nose and fine, lush mouth, silhouetted against the indigo sky.
It was odd, he thought. All his banter seemed to have deserted him in the face of her obviously troubled spirit. He could talk most women around his little finger, but with Jemima, for tonight at least, he had no interest in even trying. He didn’t want to charm her, he wanted only to comfort her.
“I had another avocation once,” he said in a musing voice. “Before I dedicated my life to l’amour.”
“I heard you tell Lovelace,” she uttered, “you wanted to be a steeplechase jockey.”
Bryce chuckled. “No, my sweet, that was only to win a bet. I wanted to…now you must promise not to laugh…I wanted nothing more than to enter the church.”
Instead of laughing, she spun to him and cried softly, “Don’t blaspheme, sir. It is not amusing.”
“See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me. The fact is, I was studying divinity at Cambridge.”
“Oh?” she drawled waspishly. “Was that before or after you seduced the don’s wife?”
He tsked. “You’ve been listening to gossip, Jemima. And as for the don’s wife, it was quite the other way round, if you must know. Not that I didn’t enjoy it. But it put me right off divinity, I can tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” She swept away from the wall, but he reached out swiftly and caught her by the arm as she passed him. He felt her resist, knew she was longing to slap at his hand where it was clamped on her forearm.
Then she stopped fighting and turned to face him. “All right, I admit it. I am very cross tonight. There now, are you satisfied?”
He slid his hand down to her wrist and let his thumb wander over the pulse point beneath her white glove. “No,” he said. “I want to know why you are cross. It’s my duty as your host to look out for your comfort. Has someone been putting too much starch in your bed linens? Were the crabcakes at lunch a trifle off?” He had a sudden inkling. “You’re angry because Troy and I abandoned you at lunch. That’s it, isn’t? We left you to your own devices with the Wrath of the Wellesleys.”
Jemima shook her head. “Don’t make sport of Lovelace, Bryce. She is just a frightened young girl, who talks too much when she gets nervous. I know she is not very clever, but I feel sorry for her.”
“You feel sorry for yourself, is more like.” He overlooked her indrawn gasp. “I don’t like you maudlin, Jemima. Not one bit.”
She tugged back from his hold. “I don’t seek to make you like me sir. That is the very last thing I desire.”
“It’s Troy who’s made this change in you,” he said in a low voice. “I see it clearly now. Before his rather unsteady advent last night, you were quite in charity with me, in your own prickly way. And this morning, driving to Sir Walter’s, you gave as good as you got. I enjoy that in a woman, Jem. You’re not some mealy-mouthed little hypocrite who pretends she doesn’t know apples from pears. But now that you are in company with your brother, you’ve put on your Sunday manners. What, Jemima, afraid that Troy will realize his sister is a flesh-and-blood woman, and not his own personal acolyte?”
She gasped again. “My relationship with Troy is none of your concern. And besides, you like my brother… I know you do. I heard you and Terry talking in the library. Sounding like two old cronies, as a matter of fact.”
“Of course I like him, he’s a decent enough fellow. Except for the way he takes you for granted. I only wish that… Wait a minute— What was that you just said? Exactly when did you hear us talking in the library?”
Jemima bit her lip and closed her eyes. She’d properly let the cat out of the bag now. Bryce was peering at her in the faint light, his brow puckered, as though he were trying to recall exactly what it was he and Troy had been discussing.
“Oh, Lord!” he said after a moment’s reflection. “That was a rather salty conversation for a lady’s ears. My sweet Jemima, did no one ever tell you not to eavesdrop on gentlemen?”
“I was only looking in for a second,” she said primly. “To see if you’d had your lunch.”
“And got your ears scorched for your troubles, I wager. Well, at least you know now that your brother is a flesh-and-blood person.”
She tossed her head. “Terry has always enjoyed the companionship of ladies. But he doesn’t pursue them to the exclusion of all else.
“You are referring to me, of course. I…um, believe you rate the merits of your sex a bit too highly if you think that women alone are enough to fill up a man’s time.”
“Ah, yes. I left out gambling and drinking.”
He turned a little away from her, so that she could no longer see his face. “I don’t make excuses to anyone for the life I lead.”
“Yes,” she said quietly in a voice that was tinged with grudging admiration. “And that is one of the few good points in your character.”
Jemima went back into the drawing room then, and Bryce didn’t try to stop her.
In the far corner of the room, Troy was making Lovelace giggle over a game of piquet.
“Discard now, Sheba. And make it a good one. I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
“Don’t call me that,” she complained, albeit with a trace of laughter in her voice.
“What, then?” he asked. “How about, ‘Fair Cleopatra, temptress of the Nile, who laid antiquity to dust, with just a smile.’ ”
Lovelace cooed, “Did you write that for me?”
Troy chuckled and shook his head. “I wrote that while you were still in leading strings.”
Jemima relaxed somewhat. At least her brother wasn’t intent on seduction. His voice contained nothing more than amused tolerance, the same tone he’d used as a boy whenever he was teasing their two younger sisters, Penelope and Anne. Which had been often, as she recalled.
She went to the piano and began to play, trying to empty her mind, as her fingers drifted over the keys. She didn’t want to think about anything, not the talented, amiable brother who thought of her as a faithful pet. Not the foolish, abandoned girl, who might be the target of a cold-blooded murderer. And certainly not the tall, harsh-faced man who infuriated her and stirred her into wayward thoughts.
Bryce came in after a time and wandered over to the card table. Jemima watched him from across the room, admiring, in spite of herself, the impressive set of his shoulders. She noted how the fabric of his elegant evening coat stretched over the sloping muscles of his back as he leaned down to whisper a playful comment to Lovelace. His eternally unruly hair had again tumbled over his brow; as he stood upright he brushed it back with one hand. And his eyes met hers.
For the first time since she’d met him, years ago it felt like, though it had been only yesterday, she saw doubt in their gray depths. All his blithe self-assurance had faded away, leaving behind a curious expression of discontent.
Nicely done, Jemima, she congratulated herself scornfully. Your bout of melancholy has now rubbed off on your host. Nicely done, indeed.
* * *
It is said a clean conscience makes for easy slumber, but contrary to the edict, Beecham Bryce rarely passed a poor night. Tonight, however, was an exception. He tossed and turned, pummeling his pillows into submission, and still sleep eluded him. Things were percolating inside his head, and he couldn’t get quit of any of them.
He hadn’t heard from his father since he’d taken ship for Barbados, and even with a swift crossing, it would be weeks before he got word of his safe arrival in the Caribbean colony. He wondered how the old fellow was getting on. The doctors had assured him that six months in a warm climate would clear up his father’s lung ailment, but Bryce had little faith in the medical profession—if such a word could be applied to that lot of quacks. For himself, he’d trust his farrier to prescribe for him before he’d let a London doctor make a diagnosis.
And then there was the unsolved murder to tax his brain. He had an uncanny feeling that he was going to be embroiled in the investigation, and not just because the murder had taken place on his property. He suspected he knew more about the matter than he was able to admit to anyone. Another batch of trouble he could lay at his father’s door, but much more serious than sick cows or sneezing farmers. It was just like the old man to go off, leaving him in possession of half-truths and thinly veiled warnings.
And tomorrow there would be a Runner on the scene. Bryce prayed he could maintain an air of indifferent curiosity and not rouse the fellow’s suspicions. Perhaps the onerous task of questioning Lovelace Wellesley would send the man hying back to Bow Street on the next mail coach.
At least Troy’s presence in his home didn’t look to be much of a problem, excepting the pressure that was placed on a man when he entertained literary royalty. The poet was an engaging youngster, not unlike the men that Bryce consorted with in London—sporting mad, up to all rigs, and overly fond of female company. Except that in Troy’s case, the pursuit of pleasure was combined with the drive to create and the rare talent to make those creations take flight.
There was only one thing about the man that Bryce misliked. It was as he’d told Jemima—Troy hardly gave a thought to his sister. No, it was worse than that. He belittled her. Bryce recalled Troy’s comments with a frown. Past her last prayers. Follows me like a faithful hound. It was to be hoped that Jemima had not been eavesdropping during that part of her brother’s discourse.
And all the gilded poet could think of to remedy his sister’s unhappy state was to throw her into the path of a notorious rake. Believing, no doubt, that Bryce could be counted on not to remove the invaluable Jemima from Troy’s life with an offer of marriage. No, he’d just sully her a bit and send her on her way.
Bryce groaned and burrowed his head into the pillow. He couldn’t do the pretty, to use the poet’s less-than-inspired words, without wanting to do another, less-sanctioned deed. Jemima had gotten into his blood and he had no intention of stopping at mere flirtation. But if he pursued her to his own ends, Troy was sure to be roused from his indifference. Christ, he might even call him out. Still, Bryce reminded himself, Jemima was no simpering schoolgirl who needed her brother’s permission to walk in the park—she was a mature woman, one who could certainly make up her own mind about whether or not she wanted to embark on an affaire de coeur.
But damn Troy for putting him in such a spot. Bryce felt as though he was the only one who gave a thought to Jemima’s honor. If she was his sister, he knew, he wouldn’t let her get within a mile of a bounder like Beecham Bryce. He grinned in the darkness. Maybe if he’d had a sister—a feisty, outspoken, warm-hearted woman like Jemima Vale—he wouldn’t have turned into the licentious care-for-none that the ton disdained and the world-at-large shunned.
The clock was striking one when he crawled from his bed and dragged on his dressing gown. These country hours were killing him. If he’d been in London, his evening would have just been beginning.
He went through the dark, silent house, heading, as he’d done in childhood, for the library. Many were the nights he and Kip would sneak downstairs, light a single candle and place it on the floor, and then proceed to make up vivid stories about the animals who dwelt on those walls. His brother had teased him in more recent years over the fact that Bryce had always favored the gazelle, Delilah, precisely because she was the only one to whom they had given a female name. Kip had seen it as a portent of his brother’s future proclivities. God bless Kip. Wherever he was.
As Bryce opened the door, he thought perhaps his brother was closer at hand than he realized. A single candle burned on the floor, tilted slightly in its silver candlestick, and a slim, robed figure was huddled before it, gazing up at the stuffed tiger that had place of honor over the mantelpiece.
“Oh!” Jemima started to get up.
“No,” Bryce said, moving forward and laying a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let me disturb you. I… I come down here, some nights, when I cannot sleep.”
“Mmm, I couldn’t sleep either.” She wrapped her arms about her knees. “Troy was in my room talking nonstop about his new poem. And after he left, I just couldn’t settle down. It’s all this country air, I expect. A bit too invigorating.”
“Were you looking for a book to read? There’s something for everyone in this library. Poets, playwrights, slumber-inducing sermons.” He forbore to mention his own private collection of erotica, which was locked away in one of the library cabinets.
She shook her head. “You will think me daft,” she said sheepishly. “I was talking to Rajah.”
“Not daft. It’s a Bryce tradition, talking to the animals. My brother and I told them everything.”
“But I am not a Bryce,” she pointed out as she started to nervously pleat the skirt of her robe.
The garment was quite an improvement over what she’d been wearing this morning, he noted appreciatively. Both robe and night rail were made of a delicate lawn, in a creamy shade that glowed in the candlelight. But not quite as richly as her smooth, white skin.
“You are a guest of Bryce Prospect,” he pointed out. “And can make free with our traditions. So what have you been telling the fearsome Rajah?”
“Oh…just that I was sorry I was so disagreeable tonight. Grumbling guests are the very devil, and I know this can’t be easy for you—”
You have no idea, he thought with wry amusement.
“Having three people underfoot, who were strangers to you before yesterday. I had no reason to take my ill-humor out on you, when you’ve been so accommodating.”
“What? Are you going to ring a peal over your brother, then, for giving you a megrim?”
Jemima sighed and splayed her fingers over her knees. “It’s not Terry, either, who has made me feel this way. He’s no different than he’s ever been.”
Bryce settled himself in the chair that faced the hearth, crossing his legs at the ankles beneath the hem of his long dressing gown. “Let’s not get into another spitting match over Troy. I’d defend my brother against all comers, and I daresay, he’d have done the same for me.”
She gazed up at him. “Why are you here, Bryce?”
“I told you, I couldn’t sleep.”
Her mouth curved into a tiny smile. “No, I mean here at Bryce Prospect. London was all atwitter at your sudden disappearance in May. You must know that the ton tracks you, wherever you go…”
“Like a watchful herd of sheep keeps tabs on a hungry wolf, eh?”
“So you think yourself a predator?”
He shrugged slightly. “It is how I am regarded. Mothers practically drag their daughters into alleyways when I pass them on the street. Which is unnecessary…in most cases.”
There was a long moment of silence in the shadowed room, then Jemima said, “You still haven’t told me why you left London.”
“It’s not important. Why don’t you tell me something of your own life, Jemima.”
She gave a small laugh. “That would put you to sleep. And I’m not going to let you avoid my question. Consider it a guest’s prerogative.”
Bryce hesitated, and then said, “My father has been ill…it’s his lungs, you see. Ever since my brother was killed, the old man hasn’t taken proper care of himself. Laboring in the fields with his workers, riding out to inspect his herds in the worst weather. He and I don’t get on…we haven’t since I left Cambridge fourteen years ago. When I came back here for my brother’s memorial service—Kip’s body was never recovered after he drowned—it was the first time in nearly five years.
Jemima looked puzzled. “But you seem so at home in this house, Bryce. Not like a visitor.”
“I grew up here. And as the eldest son, I was expected to take over the care of the estate. More so since my brother was mad to join the navy. But I had no interest in farming when I was a sprig. No, I wanted to seek after the glories of the Anglican church.”
“I still can’t credit that,” she said.
“Neither can I now, looking back. It was my grandfather’s doing I suspect. My mother’s father was a rector in Cornwall—we used to summer there. He was a great, barrel-chested fellow, with more kindness and forbearance than any man I’ve met before or since. My brother and I believed that Grandfather Kipling was really Father Christmas without his red coat; sometimes I still believe it.”
“Is he still alive—your grandfather?”
Bryce shook his head. “No, they’re all gone. Mama and Grandad. And Kip. They had such high expectations for me to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. And I had a few expectations of my own. But all I came away with, after my unfortunate experience at Cambridge, was the conviction that the Church forgives us least, when we are most human… Not a very Christian sentiment, I’m afraid.”
“But true, I think.”
His gaze slid over her. “You agree?”
“If I may quote the illustrious Lord Troy, ‘Ring out the new gods who have served our souls so ill, and raise up once more the temples, on Zeus’s mouldering hill.’ ”
“ ‘Olympian Twilight,’ wasn’t it? I recall reading it last year.” He sighed and then grinned. “The boy does have his moments. So tell me, does that make you a pagan, Lady J?”
“Mmm, I’m somewhere betwixt and between. Troy is all pagan, however, in spite of his gentlemanly trappings. I think he was disappointed that your Bacchus Club offered only pleasures of the flesh—he was expecting some ancient Greek or Roman rituals, at the very least.”
Bryce shook his head wonderingly. “You are the only woman I know, Jemima, who is rash enough to sit in Beecham Bryce’s library—in your night rail, no less—and discuss the Bacchus Club as though it were a literary society. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the one who was casting out lures.”
Her amused chuckle surprised him. “And you are the only man I know—excepting my brother—who would not think me shockingly improper for even acknowledging that such a place as Bacchus exists. It’s very liberating, not having to mind everything I say when I am with you.” She smiled up at him. “But we have wandered off the subject—we were talking about your father’s illness.”
Bryce shifted in his chair. “He’s gone off to Barbados—under duress, I might add. His doctors claim that sometime in the tropics will cure him. But he refused to go until I promised to come here and look after the place while he was away.”
“Then you have made things up with him?”
He looked down at his clenched hands. “Not so you would notice. There is too much discord between us—one selfless act on my part hasn’t made a dent in it. After I’d disgraced myself at Cambridge, he rewrote his will and left everything to Kip. And now…now God only knows who will inherit Bryce Prospect.”
“Then it truly is a selfless thing you are doing.” she said quietly. “Overseeing a property that should have come to you and with no hope of reward. I wonder that you even made the offer.”
Bryce’s eyes met hers, and he was unaware of the dull pain that lay close beneath the bright surface. “I couldn’t let him stay here and die, Jem.”
“No,” she whispered hoarsely. The pain he guarded so carefully colored his tone, even if she hadn’t already seen it in his eyes. Not only were the doors of society closed to him, she realized, but the doors to his family home, as well. And by a man he claimed no allegiance to, but whose death he would do his best to prevent.
Jemima stared into the candle flame as she spoke. “Bryce, remember yesterday, when you told me you found me surprising? I think I must return the compliment.” She looked up at him. “You are not at all what I expected.”
“I must be losing my touch,” he said. “You should be cowering in a corner by now, at the very least.”
She answered with more honesty than she intended. “I tend not to cower. Fleeing is more my style.”
Bryce sat back in his chair. He was afraid if he leaned too close he would be tempted to touch her, and if he did that, he couldn’t answer for his actions. She looked so damned tempting, but vulnerable, too vulnerable, with her wide eyes and her elegant brow marred by a tiny frown.
“I tend to dislike women who flee,” he said lightly. “Pursuit is just too wearying.” His voice dropped a notch. “But then there are some women who are well worth the chase.”
Jemima threw her head up, fighting back the urge to let his words affect her. A foolish inner voice insisted that he was speaking of her—that it was she who was worthy of his attentions. Her eyes drifted to Rajah, snarling down at her from the wall. Another skilled, silken predator, she thought, caught for all time in that fearsome pose.
She spoke into the silence that had enveloped them. “And how do you go on here, now that you have the running of the place?”
He made a sour face. “I have discovered that I am not cut out to be a farmer. My first week here, we lost six sheep to bloat. The second week, my father’s favorite hunter colicked and I was up all night walking him. He recovered, but I’m not sure that I have. And now I’ve been here a month, and the cows are sick, my tenants have the grippe, and there are infernal beetles in the woodwork.” He looked to see her reaction and was not reassured. “Oh, go right ahead, Lady J, and laugh at my woes.”
She had put one hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Sorry,” she said, trying to regain her composure. “It’s just that you seem so utterly on top of everything. But I can see that it’s quite a change from London. All you had to worry about there were jealous husbands and presumptuous young upstarts looking to dethrone you as the king of libertines.”
“Quite true,” he said dryly. “Living in London is a piece of cake compared to running Bryce Prospect. I’m still furious at my brother for abandoning me—he’d have made a much better job of things.”
“You must miss him dreadfully,” she said in a low voice.
Bryce’s tone grew clipped. “We rarely saw each other in recent years…he spent most of his time at sea. But, yes, I do miss him. He was a…a bright light in a bleak world.”
Jemima sat without speaking for a moment, digesting his words. She’d had a close enough call last night, when she thought Terry had been killed, to know how such a loss would feel. Bereft didn’t begin to describe it.
Her hand slid onto the arm of his chair, finding his hand, warm against the leather of the armrest. She wrapped her fingers around it. “I’m so sorry, Bryce,” she said.
He leaned forward, disregarding the warning voice that prompted him to keep back, and laid his free hand on her hair. The loose waves were like strands of raw silk beneath his palm.
“Jemima,” he sighed as his eyes probed hers with a curious entreaty.
She rose up at his unspoken bidding, until she was kneeling against the padded arm of the chair. Seduction now seemed the farthest thing from his mind, and yet he wanted so badly to take her in his arms. He yearned to hold her, even for the space of a few heartbeats. And he had an inkling that she might even understand and not flee from him in dismay.
He let his hand drift down from her hair, settling it on the nape of her neck. And then he slowly drew her forward. Her eyes were brimming with uncertainty, but still held no hint of fear as she gazed up at him.
But then he recalled who he was, a man who did not deserve comforting, especially not at the hands of a creature who put everyone else’s needs before her own. She was in far more need of comforting than a sorry sinner like himself. But the only sort of comfort he knew how to offer a woman would do little to raise Jemima’s spirits. It would more likely send her into an abrupt decline.
Bryce shifted back from her as he drew his hands away and placed them again upon the arms of his chair. His eyes hooded over and he drawled, “Best not get too close to the fire, pet.”
Jemima sat back on her heels, jarred by the sudden change in him, the relaxed approachability now cloaked by wry detachment. She’d barely begun to examine the rampant stirrings that his touch aroused in her when he had pulled back. “W-what?” she stammered in confusion.
In answer he reached down to where her robe was billowing perilously close to the tilted candle. He smoothed the fabric away from the fire, letting his fingers linger for an instant on her calf.
“Don’t want my guests going up in flames,” he said with an attempt at humor.
“Oh!” She twisted her skirt behind her as she scrambled to her feet. His whispering touch on her leg had sent a shiver of apprehension through her and she was suddenly afraid. “I’d better go up now.”
“Yes,” he said, still watching her with guarded eyes. “I think that would be for the best.”
She took up the candle. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No, not yet. Take the candle… I can find my way in the dark.”
I just bet you can, a little voice piped inside her head.
She stopped before the door. “Tomorrow, if you like,” she said in her most matter-of-fact voice, “I could ride out with you. I still remember some things about living on an estate—maybe I can help with the cows. And we can bring food to the tenants who are ill. Though for the life of me, Bryce, I haven’t a clue of what to do about beetles in the woodwork.”
“Go to bed, Lady J,” he said without turning his head. “Tomorrow will take care of itself.”