Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

SWEEPING INTO THE ABBEY’S DRAWING ROOM AT SEVEN o’clock, just ahead of Filchett, she fixed Charles, watching her from before the massive fireplace, with a narrow-eyed glare, then stepped aside to allow Filchett to announce that dinner was served.

Unperturbed, Charles nodded to Filchett and came to take her hand.

Steeling herself, she surrendered it, but didn’t bother to curtsy. As he laid her fingers on his sleeve and turned her to the door, she stated with what she felt was commendable restraint, “I would have been quite happy with a tray in my room.”

“I, however, would not.”

She bit her tongue, elevated her nose. She knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.

Half an hour after she’d regained her room, a maid had tapped on her door and inquired whether she would like a bath. She’d agreed; a long, relaxing soak was just what she’d needed. The steam had risen, wreathing about her; her thoughts had circled, constantly returning to the crucial question. Could she trust Charles, the Charles who now was?

She still wasn’t sure, but now understood she couldn’t-wasn’t going to be allowed to-put him off for much longer. Witness this dinner he’d jockeyed her into.

When the maid, Dorrie, had returned to inquire which gown she wanted laid out, she’d replied she intended to have dinner in her chamber. Dorrie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, no, miss! The master’s told Mrs. Slattery you’ll dine with him.”

An exchange of notes had followed, culminating in one from Charles informing her she would indeed be dining with him-where was up to her.

She’d opted for the safety of the dining parlor, the smaller salon the family used when not entertaining. He sat her at one end of the table, then walked to the carved chair at its head. The table was shorter than usual-every last leaf had been removed-yet there was still eight feet of gleaming mahogany separating them. Nothing to overly exercise her.

Reaching for the wineglass Filchett had just filled, she smiled her thanks as the butler stepped back, and reminded herself that dinner alone with Charles didn’t mean they’d actually be alone.

A gust of wind splattered rain across the window. It had been pouring for the last twenty minutes. At least Nicholas wouldn’t be scouting about tonight; she wasn’t missing anything.

As soon as the first course was served, Charles signaled Filchett, who, along with the footmen, withdrew.

Charles turned his gaze on her. “I checked in Debrett’s. Amberley, Nicholas’s father, was with the Foreign Office.”

She nodded and continued eating her soup. She waited as long as she dared before replying, “He retired years ago-’09, or thereabouts.”

What else had he pieced together? There was only one major fact she knew that he still didn’t. Would he guess…or might he connect Nicholas directly with the smugglers and not realize there was-had been-an intervening link?

Setting down her spoon, she reached for her napkin, glanced at him as she patted her lips. He was finishing his soup, his expression uninformative, but then he glanced down the table and caught her eye.

He’d seen the alternatives.

She looked away as Filchett and his minions returned.

Leaning back in his chair, Charles waited until the main course had been served and Filchett had once more retreated. “Did Nicholas visit Wallingham often over the years before Granville’s death?”

She kept her gaze on her plate. “He’s visited off and on since he was a child-Amberly and Papa were close friends.”

“Indeed?”

The word sounded mild; she wasn’t deceived.

“But Nicholas hasn’t been a regular visitor here over the last decade?”

She wished she could lie, but he’d check and find her out. “No.”

To her surprise, he left it at that and gave his attention to the roast lamb.

From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, and let her nerves stretch. She was waiting, keyed up to meet his next tack, his next inquisitorial direction. In lieu of intimidating her in any other fashion, he’d opted for demonstrating that he wouldn’t retreat, but instead, question by question, would press harder until she capitulated and told him all she knew.

The time he was willing to give her to think had become severely limited the instant he’d realized Arbry was involved; it had shortened even further when he’d learned Amberly had been with the Foreign Office, the very office the putative traitor was supposed to have graced.

He held his peace until Mrs. Slattery’s lemon curd pudding was set before them and Filchett departed. Lemon curd pudding was his favorite; delicious, it was gone in too few bites. Lifting his wineglass, he sat back and sipped, and looked down the table at Penny.

“You’re protecting someone, but it isn’t Arbry.”

She looked up; he trapped her gaze.

“So who else? Your family is all female, as is mine these days. None of them are involved.”

She swallowed her last mouthful of pudding. “Of course not.”

“So who else could be involved in running secrets out of the Fowey estuary-who that you would feel compelled to protect?” That was what was fueling her refusal to tell him; that was the point he needed to attack.

When she set down her spoon and looked back at him, unmoved, he arched a brow. “The staff at Wallingham, perhaps?”

Her gaze turned contemptuous. “Don’t be silly.”

“Mother Gibbs herself?”

“No.”

“Her sons, then-are the Gibbses still running the Fowey Gallants?”

She frowned in mock confusion. “I’m not sure how to answer-yes, or no. But yes, they’re still in charge of the Gallants. I daresay they always will be-Gibbses have been Gallants for over four hundred years.”

“Do they still meet at the Cock and Bull?”

“Yes.”

So she’d been there-followed someone there-recently. “Do you have any idea if they’ve been involved in running secrets?”

“I don’t know.”

“So which other gangs are still operating?”

He took her on a seemingly peripatetic ramble around the district; often it wasn’t her answer that enlightened, but the fact she gave any answer at all that told him who she’d recently had contact with, or thought to ask about.

It was the speed at which his questions came that finally opened Penny’s eyes. They were immersed in a rapid-fire discussion of the Essington brothers, Millie’s and Julia’s husbands, when the scales fell. She stopped midsentence, stared at him for a moment, then shut her lips. Firmly.

He accorded her glare no more than an arched brow, a what-did-you-expect look.

Indeed. Tossing her napkin on the table, she rose. He, more languidly, rose, too.

“If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire for the night.”

She turned, but by then he’d reached her. He walked beside her to the door. Closing his hand about the knob, he paused and looked down at her. Waited…until she steeled herself, looked up, and met his eyes.

“No game, Penny. I need to know. Soon.”

They were no more than a foot apart; regardless of her senses’ giddy preoccupation, the look in his midnight eyes was unmistakable. He was deadly serious. But he was dealing with her straightly, no histrionics, no attempt to dazzle her, to pressure her as only he could.

He had to know he could; that moment in the orchard had demonstrated beyond question how much sensual power he still wielded over her.

If he wished to use it.

Tilting her head, she swiftly studied his eyes, realized, understood that he’d made a deliberate choice not to invoke their personal past, not to use the physical connection that still sparked between them against her, to overcome, overwhelm, and override her will.

He was dealing with her honestly. Just him and her as long ago they’d used to be.

Moved, feeling oddly torn-tempted to grasp the chance of dealing openly with him again-she raised a hand, briefly clasped his arm. “I will tell you. You know that.” She drew in a tight breath. “But not yet. I do need to think-just a bit more.”

He searched her eyes, her face, then inclined his head. “But only a little bit more.” He opened the door, followed her through. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She nodded a good night, then climbed the stairs.

Charles watched her go, then headed for the library.

In one respect his prediction went awry; he saw her next very late that night.

After spending three hours leafing through Burke’s Peerage and Debrett’s, studying Amberly’s connections, then looking for locals with connections to the Foreign Office or other government offices, trying to identify who Penny might feel she should protect, all to no avail, he turned down the lamps and climbed the stairs as the clocks throughout the house struck half past eleven.

Halting on the landing, he looked up at the huge arched window, at the stained glass depicting the St. Austell family crest. Rain beat a staccato rhythm against the panes; the wind moaned softly. The elements called, tugged at that wilder, more innocent side of him the years had buried, teased, tempted…

Lips curving in cynical self-deprecation, he took the left branch of the stairs and climbed upward, heading not for his apartments as he’d originally intended but to the widow’s walk.

High on the Abbey’s south side immediately below the roof, the widow’s walk ran for thirty feet, a stone-faced, stone-paved gallery open on one side, the wide view of the Fowey estuary framed by ornate railings. Even in deepest night with the moon obscured by cloud and the outlook veiled by rain, the view would be magnificent, eerily compelling. A reminder of how insignificant in Nature’s scheme of things humans really were.

His feet knew the way. Courtesy of the years, he moved silently.