Bryce arrived back at the house to find a stranger standing on the front porch, smoking a clay pipe.
“Good day to you, sir,” the man called merrily, as Bryce dismounted from his horse and handed the reins to a waiting groom.
“And good day to you.”
“We’ve been awaiting your return. I came here with Sir Walter—he’s inside with your guests. Not a happy man, that one. Not to be in company with such fine ladies…and such talkative ladies.” He grinned and held out his hand as Bryce came up the steps. “Lawrence Fletcher, at your service. Of Bow Street, as you might have guessed. Most folks just call me Mr. Fletch.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fletch. I am Beecham Bryce.”
Bryce had never had occasion to meet a Runner in person, his own crimes being more amatory in nature than strictly unlawful. He studied the man briefly and was not impressed. Though of middle height, Mr. Fletch was possessed of an unfortunately disproportionate body—his melon-shaped head quite overwhelmed his thin, angular frame. A fitted moleskin jacket and pipestem breeches did little to flesh out that reedy architecture. His bony wrists protruded noticeably form the worn edges of his shirtsleeves and an oversized Adam’s apple bobbed above a carelessly knotted Belcher handkerchief. Not exactly the sort of man to strike fear into the hearts of wrongdoers. Crows, perhaps, but certainly not bloodthirsty murderers. So it was a good thing, Bryce reflected wryly, that there was no one of that ilk hanging about in the district.
Mr. Fletch bore his scrutiny with relaxed tolerance. He then gave Bryce a wide smile. His eyes, neither black nor brown, glittered brightly in his swarthy face. “I note your nag sir.” He nodded toward Bryce’s departing horse. “Won the Derby in ‘08, unless I miss my guess.”
Bryce gave the man a swift, approving look. Perhaps there was a brain after all in that oddly shaped head. “You’ve a good eye for horseflesh, Mr. Fletch. I bought Rufus from his owners—the ungrateful rascals were going to put him down when he started to lose his races.”
“Gelding,” the man said with a wink. “No use a’tall for breeding. But a nice country hack, I reckon.”
“He’s a grand horse, and since I won a great deal of money on him in that particular Derby, I thought he deserved better than a trip to the knackers.”
Mr. Fletch bowed slightly. “A man after my own heart, Mr. Bryce. Now if you will join your guests in the drawing room, I believe we can get down to business.” He knocked his pipe against the stone railing of the porch and followed Bryce into the hall.
Everyone looked up as the two men entered, their faces full of anticipation and a touch of unease. Lovelace was sitting primly on the sofa, her injured foot resting on a little stool, with Troy beside her, sprawled back against the cushions. Jemima was seated at the window in a delicate side chair. She looked at Bryce for an instant, and then lowered her eyes to her lap. He could have sworn she blushed.
Sir Walter was the first to greet him, rising from his chair near the fireplace and muttering worriedly, “He’s French, Bryce. Confound it, the fellow is French.”
Bryce looked from the magistrate to the Runner. “He sounds English enough to me, Sir Walter.”
The man hissed, “Not Mr. Fletch, dash it all, the corpse.”
Mr. Fletch coaxed Sir Walter back into his chair. “Mr. Bryce, if you will make yourself comfortable.”
Bryce went to stand beside Jemima, murmuring, “This looks to be a farce that will outshine anything the Minstrels could produce.”
“Sssh!” She shot him a warning look.
Mr. Fletch situated himself before the fireplace, his knobby hands hanging loose at his side. “Now that Mr. Bryce is returned, we can begin. I am going to tell you what I have discovered, but if any of you have something you would like to add, please feel free to interrupt me.”
Lovelace gave a little shiver of anticipation.
Mr. Fletch clasped his hands before him. “I have thoroughly examined the body of the murdered man, which Sir Walter has been good enough to keep in his spring house.”
Bryce gave a little snicker of amusement, which he immediately covered with a dry cough.
Jemima gave him another dark look, as Mr. Fletch continued. “He was killed by a single knife thrust through the thorax, which penetrated the heart.” He glanced at the two women, as if assessing the possibility of potential swooning. Both Jemima and Lovelace were regarding him with avid, bright-eyed attention. “From the tailoring of the man’s clothing, and from the coins in his pocket, I can deduce that he is, if not himself French, someone who has spent some time in that country.”
Lovelace raised her hand. “Mr. Fletch,” she said, once he had acknowledged her. “I heard the man speaking and he sounded just like me.”
“She means, he spoke English,” Troy translated with a wry glance at his sister.
Mr. Fletch was unperturbed. “It has on occasion happened that a Frenchman has learned to speak our language. Quite well, in fact, and with a barely detectable accent.”
Jemima made a noise of impatience. “Mr. Fletch,” she said haltingly, “I do not wish in any way to tell you your business, but I have myself owned gowns that were from Paris. And I’m sure in the bottom of my reticule you might find the odd coin from Greece. These facts make me neither French nor Greek.”
Mr. Fletch nodded. “Just so, ma’am. I have not said that this man is French, only that his clothing is. Which begs the question, how is it that a man who spoke English, who was murdered in England, was wearing clothing from a country with whom we have been at war for over a decade?”
Lovelace raised her hand again, waving it back and forth. “I know!” she cried. “Oh please, call on me.”
“He ain’t a schoolmaster, Sheba,” Troy muttered.
“Yes, Miss Wellesley?” Mr. Fletch tried not to roll his eyes.
Lovelace looked around, making sure that all eyes were on her as she proclaimed, “He was a spy!”
“Or a smuggler,” Bryce said under his breath.
“Or an emigre,” Jemima mused aloud.
“Ladies, gentlemen, please. We are not here to conjecture on anything. We are here to establish facts. Now with Miss Wellesley’s assistance, I would like to recreate the murder. Mr. Bryce, Lord Troy, if you would join me up here. And Miss Wellesley, of course.”
Troy rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “Theatricals, how lovely.”
Bryce leaned for an instant over Jemima. “If you make so much as one cutting remark…”
She hid her grin behind her hand, but could not prevent her eyes from dancing up at him.
After a great deal of deliberating, Lovelace arranged her two actors into the proper positions. “Now you must argue and glare fiercely at each other.”
The men took antagonistic stances opposite each other and began to mutter nonsense in a low tone.
“Perfect!” Lovelace cried. “Now Lord Troy must say, ‘This is all I found, I tell you!’ ”
They did as she asked, and then on her further instructions, Bryce caught Troy’s wrists in his hands and began to force him back toward the fire breast. “Now!” Lovelace crowed. “The knife.”
Bryce drove an imaginary dagger into his opponent’s chest. Troy staggered melodramatically around the room for far longer than was necessary, and then collapsed in an inert heap upon the sofa. Lovelace screamed then, full out and with every bit of lung power she possessed. It lasted a full fifteen seconds, and Bryce swore later to Jemima that he heard Sir Walter’s foxhounds baying in response all the way off in Withershins.
“Oh, s-sorry,” Lovelace stammered when she was through, once she realized that everyone in the room, including the corpse, was looking at her with their mouths hanging wide open. “It was what came next. I—I forgot we were in a drawing room. I am stage-trained, you know.”
“Ought to be house-trained,” Troy murmured, but then gave her a broad wink, “We’ll see you in Covent Garden yet, Sheba.”
Mr. Fletch thought it was time to get his reenactment back on track. “What now, Miss Wellesley?”
“He,” she said pointing to Bryce, “crept stealthily up to the tree where I was hiding. And then he grabbed me by the arm.”
Bryce walked casually across the carpet.
“Stealthily, old chap,” Troy coached from the sofa, his chin on his fisted hands.
“You’re dead.” Bryce dismissed him with an amused scowl. He grasped Lovelace lightly by her wrist and swung her toward him.
“Now,” Mr. Fletch said quickly. “Tell me what you see.”
“Mr. Bryce,” Lovelace said with a perplexed frown.
“No,” the Runner said between his teeth. “The man who caught you in the woods. Describe him.”
Lovelace closed her eyes, her face working into a tight squint as she concentrated. “A tall man…dark hair…tanned face…pale eyes.”
“You are still describing Mr. Bryce,” the Runner said impatiently.
“Indeed I am not,” she cried. “It’s true there is a resemblance…when Mr. Bryce came to my aid, I thought he could have been the murderer. Well, actually, at first I thought the cow was the murderer…”
Bryce saw the bewildered expression on the Runner’s face and shot him an apologetic grin. “You get used to it after a while, Mr. Fletch,” he assured him. “It actually almost grows on you.”
Lovelace continued, undeterred. “The man in the woods resembled Mr. Bryce—at least from the nose up. Because you see, I just now recalled that the murderer had a beard. A short, dark beard. I cannot think how I could have forgotten such a thing.”
“That, Miss Wellesley,” Mr. Fletch responded briskly, “is why we perform reenactments. They stir the memory something fierce. So tell me, what did you do next?”
“I ran away,” she stated.
“Pretend, Lovelace,” Jemima piped in quickly. She had a vision of them all chasing after the girl as she hightailed it at a hobbling run across the west lawn.
With a great deal of huffing and puffing, Lovelace ran slowly in place. “I fell into a rabbit hole then.”
“Very large rabbits hereabouts,” Troy drawled.
“But if you please, Mr. Fletch,” she said, “I’d rather not reenact that. Acting it the once was hard enough on my ankle.”
“Of course, miss. You may sit down now. And I must say, you did very well.”
As Lovelace limped back to the sofa, her audience gave her a smattering of applause. She performed a curtsy, and then pinched Troy on his arm, so that he would sit up and make room for her on the sofa.
“But I’m the corpse,” he protested as he shifted to one side.
“So,” Mr. Fletch said, as he paced across the room. “We have seen the murder through this young lady’s eyes. Two men, an argument, a scuffle, and then a knife thrust. Mr. Bryce finds Miss Wellesley, takes her to the inn, speaks to the landlord for…how long?”
“Five minutes at the most,” Bryce replied.
“And when they return to the scene of the murder, and meet up with Lady Jemima, the corpse has already been disposed of. Now, even if our murderer was a behemoth, I doubt he had the strength to remove a man’s body and carry it overland. Earlier today, Sir Walter took me to the clearing where the murder took place, and afterward I found hoofprints in the lane where it curves around the wheat field.”
“I never took Rufus into the lane that day, except quite near the inn,” Bryce said. “But there are others who sometimes use that lane, tinkers and farmworkers. The butcher’s boy.”
“So I’ve been told. But there was also an interesting bit of evidence left on the rail fence.”
Jemima closed her eyes and winced. She had a fair idea of the evidence a bloodied corpse left behind.
“Ah,” Mr. Fletch said. “I see Lady Jemima anticipates me.”
Her eyes met the Runner’s. “It was all over my folding stool and my gown. The blood, that is.” Her glance shifted to Lovelace. “Miss Wellesley has a deal of fortitude to have witnessed such a grisly crime and not fainted dead away. I can’t say I’d have had the strength to flee, after such a thing.”
Bryce bent and whispered, “But you excel at fleeing, Lady J. I have your own word on it.”
She chose to ignore this. “But tell us, Mr. Fletch, how did the murderer carry off the body?”
He nodded toward Bryce. “If the man was built along similar lines to our host, he could have moved the victim a short distance.”
Troy leapt up from the couch with an eager expression on his face. “Want to try, Bryce? Carry me around the room?”
“Oh, sit down, Troy,” Bryce muttered. “I already carried you half across the stable yard…in case you have forgotten your intemperate arrival here.”
Troy sat down and winked at Lovelace. “I was completely jug-bit.”
“Mr. Bryce has made my point for me,” the Runner said with a scowl at the unrepentant poet. “If the murderer had a horse waiting in the lane, he had only to carry the body, what?…twenty or thirty feet.”
With a shock of recollection, Jemima had a vision of the peddler she had seen as she crossed the wheat field. Just after the murder it would have been. She toyed with the idea of mentioning this occurrence to the Runner. But then Bryce had just pointed out that local tradesmen often used the lane. Just another case of the maiden lady starting at shadows, she thought with a small scowl.
“It’s a bad business,” Sir Walter grumbled. “Two strangers having at each other in our quiet little burg. I’d never have brought you in, Mr. Fletch, if I hadn’t thought it was Lord Troy who had been killed.”
The Runner said, “But as I am here, Sir Walter, I think I can be of assistance. Now we know that our unknown corpse was carrying the items which had been stolen from Lord Troy’s room at the Iron Duke. The landlord cannot say with any certainty if there were strangers lurking around the inn that morning—a great many people were coming and going, and all because of a mill that was being held in Barcroft.
“Best fight I ever saw,” Troy reminisced softly.
“But someone took Lord Troy’s things and we have no reason to think it was anyone other than the unidentified victim.”
“But why break into Troy’s room?” Jemima asked as she shifted away from Bryce, who was leaning against the window frame with his long legs canted perilously near her hip. “Why was he singled out?”
Mr. Fletch gave her a nod of approval. “That is a pertinent question, Lady Jemima. Why indeed? And I have a theory. A man called Sir Richard Hastings was staying in the room beside your brother’s. I believe the thief entered the wrong room. Sir Richard is a retired naval officer, but he is still active in government circles. He is rumored to be involved in rooting out a spy network which operates on this coast. I wager a member of the Admiralty would be a more likely target for a French thief than a poet.”
“See!” Lovelace crowed to Troy. “I was right about the spies. Now you shall write a poem about spies and foul murderers, and Papa can turn it into a stage play. And I can play… I can play myself.” She twinkled at him.
“I never write about politics and such,” the poet said darkly. “Not enough pith.” Lovelace looked forlorn until Troy said, “But I will write something for you, Sheba. How about, ‘Little Lame Lovelace, or the Fortitudinous Foundling’?”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed.
Mr. Fletch coughed pointedly to regain everyone’s attention. “There is one problem with my theory. If the dead man was part of a spy network, why then did his compatriot in the woods murder him?”
“Why do you assume they were compatriots?” Bryce asked in a matter-of-fact voice.
“It stands to reason. The two men clearly knew each other. ‘Tis unlikely that two strangers would be arguing in such a manner. Miss Wellesley overhead enough of their exchange for us to conjecture that they were in league.”
“Do you think she is in any danger now, Mr. Fletch?” Jemima asked intently.
The Runner nodded slowly. “I do not wish to frighten Miss Wellesley. But this man has done murder once; I doubt he would shrink from it a second time. Especially since the young lady was the only witness to his crime.”
Lovelace gave a small whimper. Troy took up her hand and began to pat it reassuringly.
Jemima turned to gaze up at Bryce. “I thought you were being overly cautious, insisting she stay here. But it appears I was wrong.”
At the moment, Bryce looked like his thoughts were a million miles away. He moved forward into the room. “No one will come to any harm if they stay within the confines of the estate,” he said a bit brusquely. “Mr. Fletch, have you had a chance to speak with Sir Richard? In light of his connection with the Admiralty, he might be able to tell you what the thief was looking for.”
“Papers!”
Bryce looked down at Lovelace, thinking she had again ventured a solution. But she was sitting subdued and pale and quite silent.
“It was papers he was after,” Jemima repeated, her eyes on Bryce. “That was why Terry’s notebook was ripped up. The man took the poems, thinking they were some sort of naval documents.”
“Don’t be daft, Jemima,” Troy uttered. “Who could mistake poetry for perishing naval documents?”
“No, wait—” Mr. Fletch held up one hand. “The thief might have thought they were written in code. It’s not an uncommon practice. Messages are sent using phrases from newspapers or books, and the recipient deciphers them using a decoding chart.”
“Good luck to him deciphering ‘Ode to Persephone,’ ” Troy chuckled. “It’s more than I was able to do with the blasted thing.”
“There were no papers found on the man’s body,” Mr. Fletch remarked. “So the murderer must have taken them. And if that’s the case, the dead man was killed, not for a cache of naval secrets, but for a silly bit of foolscap. Oh, sorry, Lord Troy.” He gave the poet an affable grin that did little to hide the wry twinkle in his bright eyes.
Jemima shifted forward in her chair. “I’m still confused on one point, Mr. Fletch. When the Frenchman said, ‘This is all I found,’ wasn’t he admitting to his confederate that the papers were not those he expected to find at the inn? Why would the bearded man commit murder over worthless papers?”
Mr. Fletch nodded. “A nice observation, ma’am. Perhaps he killed our Frenchman not to get his hands on the papers but rather in a fit of rage, because the thief had so badly bungled the job. Then the murderer took the pages with him to cover his tracks, never realizing that his victim was carrying your brother’s jewelry, which would allow us to trace the Frenchman back to the inn.”
There was a grim silence in the room, as everyone digested the concept of such a vengeful villain.
Mr. Fletch gazed about him with narrowed eyes, like a heron surveying a teeming pond. “Now, do you have any other questions?” he waited a moment. “No? Very well then. I must thank you all for your time. We’ve made a good start here today. All I request is that you not discuss this matter except amongst yourselves. Secrecy,” he intoned, “is paramount at this point.”
He moved forward to shake Bryce’s hand. “And thank you for the use of your home, sir. I’ll have a word with Sir Richard in Canterbury. Let’s hope he can shed some light on the matter.”
“You’re not going to stay here and guard us, Mr. Fletch?” Lovelace asked with a throb in her voice.
Bryce nearly laughed. Mr. Fletch looked barely able to guard a biscuit tin, let alone a house full of people. Though the man had a keen enough grasp on things, he had to admit. Too keen, perhaps.
Mr. Fletch gave Lovelace a tight smile. “I investigate things, miss. We Runners tend not to get involved in the watchdog end of the business. But I believe Mr. Bryce and Lord Troy will see that you come to no harm. And if the murderer has any brains, he’ll have left the district.”
“Probably gone back to France, by now,” Sir Walter muttered sourly as he rose from his chair. “Bloody frogs. Well, come along now, Mr. Fletch. You can drop me home and then have the use of my gig. I pray Hastings will be able to put an end to this sorry business.”
Mr. Fletch turned in the doorway. “I’ve taken a room at the Iron Duke, so if you happen to think of anything else I might need to know, you can leave a message with the landlord.”
As Bryce escorted Sir Walter and the Runner from the room, Jemima noted that he again wore that distracted expression on his face. As though he were fretting about something. Troy sat looking thoughtful a moment, and then he jumped up from the sofa and, after a brief aside to Jemima, went striding out the door in the wake of the three men.
Lovelace turned down Jemima’s offer to sit with her in the garden, moaning that she didn’t dare go out of the house, even in daylight, with a crazed French murderer on the loose. Jemima understood totally—she wasn’t sure she cared to venture outside herself.
“I wish Mama and Papa were here,” Lovelace said mournfully as Jemima settled beside her on the sofa. “And Charlie. And even that wretch, Percival Lancaster—he is our leading man, you know. And even though he drinks like a fish and calls me a scene-stealing little harpy, he is a strapping, robust fellow. I think he would probably defend me from peril…if only because he fancies himself to be something of a hero.”
“I’m sure he would defend you,” Jemima said soothingly. “We all would, Lovelace. And I think you should know why Troy went after Mr. Fletch just now—he wants to send for another Runner to look into your parents’ whereabouts. Surely someone from Bow Street should be able to trace a large traveling coach and a prop wagon with WELLESLEY’S WANDERING MINSTRELS painted on the side.”
Lovelace looked slightly less crestfallen. “Did he really do that for me, Lady Jemima?” A fresh batch of tears welled up in her pansy brown eyes. “You and your brother are so kind.”
“Now, I think you should have a look in on the library—there are some very entertaining books in there, and you need a distraction. And if all else fails, you can always talk to the animals.”
Lovelace appeared bewildered.
“You’ll see what I mean,” Jemima said with a knowing grin, as she walked the hobbling girl to the door.
* * *
Bryce returned to the room a few minutes later and found Jemima standing at the window, gazing out over the lawn. “Looking for spies in the underbrush?” he asked as he came up beside her.
“It’s all so preposterous,” she said, turning to him. His expression was now relaxed and held a hint of amusement. “French spies and coded messages…like something from one of Lovelace’s melodramas.”
“Unfortunately those things do exist.” he said softly. “All part of warfare between civilized nations.”
Jemima bit at her lip. “In London it is easy to forget we are at war. One sees the military everywhere, of course, but the men seem like play soldiers, their uniforms merely a bit of pretty color to set off a lady’s gown.” She sighed. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I have given the war little thought. It…it has had no impact on my life until now.”
“What?” he asked as he moved closer. “Haven’t lost a dashing beau to artillery fire, Lady J?”
She shook her head crossly. “Don’t make a joke of it, Bryce. You of all people know how it feels to lose someone you love because of the war. Even if it wasn’t in a military engagement, your brother died in service to the King. But my friends in London are artists and writers and the like—they are indifferent to the war at best, and at worst, well… I fear some of them actually admire Bonaparte.”
He gave her a tolerant smile. “It’s not a crime to admire your enemy. You think Wellington doesn’t look upon Napoleon as a worthy foe?”
She lowered her head and said softly, “I think it’s time I came down from my ivory tower.”
“Bravo, Lady Jemima.” Bryce took up her hand. “Shall I fetch a ladder from the barn?”
She snatched her hand back and gave him a searing frown. “Can you never be serious?”
“I avoid it at all costs. Especially since you appear to be serious enough for the both of us, at the moment. Will it reassure you if I promise that Lovelace will come to no harm while she is here?”
“You are very cocksure of your ability to protect her.”
There was a strange light in his eyes as he replied, “I am a dangerous man to cross.”
She was about to point out that any reputation he might have in the ton as a man not to be trifled with had certainly not filtered into France. But her protest died on her lips. He did indeed look very dangerous at that moment, fierce and quietly menacing. And if half of England knew that Beecham Bryce was deadly with a pistol or a sword, then who was to say that a Kent-based clutch of spies had not also learned of it?
Bryce leaned toward her, his mouth almost brushing her ear as he added in a low tone, “Do you think I would let you remain here, if I thought there was the slightest risk?”
“No,” she said, quickly moving away from him. He was too compelling up close; even from half across the room she could feel the heat of his presence. “I think you will keep us all safe, Bryce. And perhaps we are starting at shadows. It’s possible there is no risk involved.”
“Not for Lovelace, not at the hands of spies,” he said as he closed the gap between them in three easy strides. “For you, however, there is a deal of risk.”
She looked up, startled. And then smiled wryly. “Oh, I see. More innuendo?”
Bryce wasn’t grinning. “I believe I’m beginning to weary of innuendo.”
“Amen,” Jemima murmured under her breath.
“No,” he continued, “I think it’s time for a more direct approach.”
“What, is the fox to be warned then, that the hounds are about to be loosed?”
“Mmm. Let us say that I am giving you a sporting chance. Though I’m damned if I know why.”
“You must know by now that I am not easily cozened,” she said evenly. “You’ve plied your rakish wiles on me these past three days, flung your hints and unsubtle flatteries, and I am still unmoved.”
Bryce gave her a long look through his forelock and then shook his head. “Lady Jemima, you are much greener than you appear, if you think my behavior to date has been an attempt at seduction.”
She felt herself begin to flush with embarrassment. “B-but you’ve been flirting with me…” she nearly sputtered. “At least… I thought you were.”
“I flirt with Lovelace. Idle, meaningless words. I wouldn’t waste my time flirting with you, Jem.”
Jemima didn’t know whether to be outraged at the insult inherent in his words, or gut-wrenchingly disappointed that he didn’t desire her after all.
But then he added in a deep, provocative whisper, “There is nothing idle or meaningless about what I say to you.” He compounded the effect of his words by leaning forward and slowly brushing his chin over her cheek.
She had never felt anything so remarkable—the slight rasp of his skin against the soft planes of her face left a shivery trail of fire. His husky voice had held a promise of sensual pleasures and earthly delights. Jemima had to fight off her inclination to walk up to him and lay her head against his chest. It would be so easy to raise her lips to his and so rewarding to feel that steely mouth soften into tender passion. But not here in this room where a gruesome murder had been acted out. Not now, when her fears for Lovelace were so close to the surface.
Bryce had moved to the arm of the sofa, and now sat watching her, his eyes intent and his lips curled into a cryptic expression that was neither grin nor scowl.
“I…” Jemima opened her mouth, but had no idea of what to say. Take me, occurred to her. Have me, own me… But as much as she admitted to her desire for him, she knew she needed to set her own pace. She had no intention of being an easy conquest, only an ultimately willing one.
She drew a breath, seated herself beside him on the sofa, and said in an airy voice that would have done Lovelace proud, “I fear you will never succeed in luring me into dalliance, Bryce. I am too often amused or infuriated with you to ever take anything you say seriously.”
He swiveled around to face her, his mouth now relaxed into a genuine grin. “You know little of the matter, that’s clear,” he said. “Humor and anger are two of a libertine’s greatest tools—humor makes a woman lower her guard and think herself secure.”
“And anger?”
He cocked his head and said reflectively, “Anger heats the blood—which is the desired outcome when a man seeks to bed a woman.” His gaze slid to her. “Lord, Jem, you must think seduction a bland thing. How do you picture it? An oily cad whispering wet kisses up your arm, while he mouths pretty platitudes? If that’s been your experience of seduction, then I can only say you have put yourself in the hands of cawkers.”
“I have never intentionally put myself in any man’s hands,” she replied briskly, neatly disguising the fact that she wanted desperately to put herself in Bryce’s strong, tanned, and very experienced hands.
“Oh, women rarely acknowledge that they are accomplices to their own seduction—they pretend dismay, which allows them a clear conscience once they are enjoying the results of their acquiescence.”
“Perhaps they truly do feel dismay.” She added a bit sharply. “Would you even notice if they did?”
He shot her a withering look. “If you are implying that I have ever forced myself on a woman—”
“Why wouldn’t you? You are a tall man, fit and strong. I doubt a woman’s feeble protests could keep you from achieving your goal.”
His scowl softened. “It’s true there are those who enjoy forcing a woman to comply. There is an ugly word for such men. But I have never been remotely interested in coercion.” He reached down and lifted her hand from her lap, turning it over and flattening out her fingers. He then laid his hand directly over hers, less than an inch above the palm. “Here, what do you feel?”
She looked questioningly into his eyes, then down at their two hands.
“Nothing,” she said softly. “I feel nothing.”
“Relax,” he said. “And close your eyes.”
She did as he asked, more out of curiosity than in any faith that something magical was going to occur. Then she felt it, the subtle electric vibration arising from her palm. It quivered in the air between their two hands, and within seconds her own hand had raised to his. His fingers closed over it.
“That,” he breathed, tightening his grip, “is what I am interested in. The pull…the tug…the magnetic force that draws two people together. Not coercing a woman, Jemima. Never that.”
He dropped her hand abruptly, stood up, and crossed over to the nearest French window. “Enough for today. I’ve got to see to my horses.” He disappeared through the arched opening.
Jemima looked down at her hand, still raised before her. It was shaking—no longer from his touch, but from the intensity of the emotions that were flooding through her. The warm clasp of his fingers had sent a ripple of pleasure through her body, but more than that, she was reacting to the blinding surge of need that had erupted from her heart. Like Bryce, she longed to succumb to that fierce magnetic pull, but she knew there was much more that she wanted from him. Last night she had seen a glimpse of the real Bryce behind the libertine’s facade—a man who worried over his father, even though there were years of enmity between them. A man who mourned the death of his brother—a brother who would have deprived him of his own patrimony. She had a vision of Bryce as a young man, his idealism soured by the harsh response of the Church he aspired to serve—to what was nothing more than a youthful dalliance. The Church forgives us least, when we are most human. Those words had been laced with bitterness, even more than a decade after the fact.
And so he had turned from the light, given up his vocation, and become a reprobate—a man who allowed all his appetites free rein. And yet some traces of honor lingered; she was sure of it.
She raised her hands to her face. “Don’t, Jemima,” she breathed into her palms. “Don’t look for redeeming qualities in him. He makes no excuses for his behavior—why then should you presume to make excuses for him?”
The answer rose up from deep inside her and shocked her in its clarity.
“No!” she said aloud in a trembling voice. “I won’t let it happen. I refuse to let it happen.”
Her decision that morning, to participate in her own seduction, began at once to falter. She couldn’t let Bryce get that close to her, not now. Not in light of the feelings that were currently making a whirlygig of her heart. How could she have been so blind to her own desires? She wanted Bryce all right. But not only as a skilled and accomplished bedmate. There was a world of things she wanted from him. He had only to touch her in the most casual way, for all her long suppressed yearnings to rise up.
She had lied to herself in the meadow that morning—merely being desired by a man was not enough. But she knew it would be a chilly day in hell before a man like Beecham Bryce would adore, worship, or esteem her. A very chilly day.
* * *
Bryce went to the stable and hid in the dark recesses of the tack room, idly buffing one of the bridles with a cloth, while he waited for his blood to cool.
Damn the woman! Sitting there demure and proper, like a sainted school mistress, gazing up at him with her bright, azure eyes. So innocent, so bloody trusting. Blithely announcing to him that she was not about to be led down the garden path. She’d almost made it sound like a challenge.
What he’d told her was true, at least in his experience—women were always accessories to their own seduction. Their protests were rarely more than lip service to convention. His theory had been validated on the rare occasions when he’d been turned down. Women who were not interested in dalliance said no. And then did not linger in range.
But Jemima Vale had confounded him. He’d made no secret of his interest in her, practically from the start, and she’d made it equally clear that she had no intention of letting him seduce her. But then she did not go away, as prudence would have dictated. It was true she was more or less trapped in his home until Lovelace was freed from threat of the unknown murderer. But the house was large—she could have easily kept away from him. Instead she made herself available to him at every turn. She had gone driving with him, and hadn’t fled from the library last night, even though it was highly improper for them to sit and talk in such an intimate setting. And she had willingly accompanied him on his ride over the estate that morning.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was throwing herself at him.
But as much as he wished that were true, he suspected Jemima sought him out only because, in her immeasurable naivete, she assumed he had accepted her rebuff and had subsequently lost all interest in pursuing her. When, in fact, just the opposite was the case.
Blind little fool! To believe she could discuss the techniques of seduction with a hardened libertine, as though they were chatting about archery, without making herself a target for his lust. It gave her a vicarious thrill, he saw quite clearly, to question him on such an indelicate topic. But she would learn, if she didn’t take care, that if you danced too close to the fire, you were bound to get scorched.
* * *
At dinner, any discussion of the murder was avoided as if by mutual accord. The conversation was restricted to commonplace topics—the merits of the various dishes that were carried to the table, the state of the nation, and that trusty standby, the weather. Each of the diners seemed preoccupied by his or her own thoughts. Lovelace was fretting with worry over the prolonged absence of her family, as well as the threat of the vengeful murderer. Jemima was trying, in vain, to tamp down her unruly and wholly irrational feelings for Bryce. By the end of the meal she had lapsed into an edgy silence.
Bryce was still reeling from the discovery he had made in the cave that afternoon. He chatted amiably enough with his guests, but his thoughts were drawn back to that limestone cavern. In spite of his insistence to Jemima that she was not at risk—and he truly believed that to be the case—until he knew exactly what sort of game his nighttime visitor was playing, he had no right to offer such a guarantee. For the first time since her advent into his home, he was rethinking Jemima’s presence there.
Bryce’s attention shifted to Troy, who seemed full of high spirits as he entertained the table with the tale of his first meeting with the Prince Regent. But then in a matter of minutes he became oddly deflated, picking listlessly at his salmon as though the weight of the world sat upon his immaculate shoulders.
Jemima knew the reason behind Troy’s mercurial behavior, and when she took him aside in the drawing room, he merely smiled at her question. “Of course I’m working on a poem. When am I not? But this one is something different—not an epic tale, but rather a dark, shadowy piece. It’s this house, Jem. It puts me in mind of specters and hobgoblins.”
Troy’s creativity, she knew, had always been affected by his surroundings. After visiting Holyrood House, Mary Stuart’s castle in Edinburgh, he had been inspired to write one of his best short poems—“The Queen’s Consort.” And in Egypt and Greece, where Troy had steeped himself in the ancient, sun-burnished landscape of the Mediterranean, exquisite cantos had flowed nonstop from his pen.
“Yes,” she said, casting a quick glance at their host, “I do find this house to be full of shadows. Though I can’t say I find them particularly inspiring.”
“Ah, but then you don’t require inspiration,” he said in his offhand way. He excused himself then, and went off to the small parlor Bryce had given him to use as a study. In less than a day, Troy had filled it with books and papers, pens and ink pots, as well as his collection of talismans.
Jemima went to her own room shortly after Troy’s departure, eager to escape before Bryce could seek her out for conversation. She had not been alone with him since their tête-à-tête in the drawing room, an interlude that she still looked back on with great misgiving. She had left him playing at jackstraws with Lovelace. His gaze had followed her as she went from the room, showing puzzlement and a measure of unguarded hunger. As she went slowly up the stairs, Jemima was able to convince herself that the yearning she’d seen in those pale eyes was nothing more than a trick of the light.