Caleb cursed as a shot of lust slid into his groin and his shaft went achingly hard. He was glad for the shadows on the terrace and annoyed at the heavy bulge straining against the front of his breeches.

Dammit to bloody hell. What was it about her that made her so different from the rest of the women he had known?

Cursing the unwelcome hold she had over him, Caleb walked away from the window. He couldn't afford to think of her and so he turned his attention to the task he had set for himself tonight.

The party was in full swing, guests drinking, gambling, dancing, some sneaking off to assignations in the rooms upstairs. The drawing rooms in this wing of the house echoed with laughter and gaiety, but the opposite wing was mostly dark. The library was there and the study. Both rooms opened onto the garden.

Careful to stay in the shadows, Caleb made his way in that direction.






14


« ^ »


Gabriella Durant stood next to Elizabeth Sorenson beneath the extravagant cloud-painted ceiling of the Cirrus Room. It hummed with the laughter and conversation of guests, the busy hustle of liveried servants carrying silver trays heavy with hors d'oeuvres and champagne.

Elizabeth's blue eyes latched onto one of the men across the room. "My God—did you invite Charles?" Gowned in white satin glittering with brilliants, Elizabeth stared at her husband as if a ghost had appeared on the opposite side of the drawing room.

"He arrived with Lord Claymont. Dylan said Charles asked if he could come." It was very bad ton, Gabriella knew. A man could come to an affair like this with his mistress, but never his wife.

Years ago, after Charles had abandoned his bride for another woman, Elizabeth had shown her disdain for Society and done exactly as she pleased. She still did. But she rarely appeared at a function where her husband would be present and Charles did his best to avoid his errant wife.

Or at least he had done so in the past.

Lately, Gabriella had noticed, Charles had made an unexpected appearance on several occasions and much of his attention had focused on his beautiful wife.

"Perhaps he has come because you are here."

"Charles?" She laughed and Gabriella didn't miss the bitterness in her voice. "I am the last reason he would be here. Perhaps he has his eye on an actress or an opera singer… Juliette Beauvoir perhaps. I heard he has been without a mistress for some time."

"Now that you mention it, I had heard that as well." Gabriella looked at her friend, whose gaze kept straying across the room toward the lean, sandy-haired man she had married but with whom she no longer shared a bed.

"Have you seen much of Charles lately?" Gabriella asked.

Elizabeth turned. "It's funny you should ask. You know he has been living at Rotham Hall these last several months." It was the earl's estate not far from the city where Elizabeth lived with her sons Peter and Tom. "I told him if he wished to stay with the boys for a while, I would move into the town house, but he said there was plenty of room for all of us."

"Interesting."

"I was surprised, to say the least. I might have moved, but the boys seemed so happy to have the two of us there I decided to stay. I don't imagine he'll remain much longer."

"So the two of you have been spending time together."

She glanced away. "I see him at breakfast on occasion. I make it a point to stay out of his way."

And it probably broke her friend's heart. Gabriella might have cursed Charles Sorenson as she had more than once over the years if she hadn't spotted the earl just then, staring at his wife from across the room, his face wreathed in an expression that could only be described as longing.

Dear God, had the man finally realized what he had thrown away? Was it possible? Charles was older now, less of a rogue than he had been back then. Though Elizabeth's reputation had been in tatters for years, Charles had maintained a façade of respectability. At any rate, a man having a mistress was accepted among the ton. But Charles was risking a blow to that façade by being here tonight with Elizabeth.

Was it really Juliette Beauvoir or some other woman who tempted him? Or could it be his lovely, heartbroken wife?

"Have you seen Vermillion?" Elizabeth asked, drawing her thoughts in another direction.

"The last time I saw her, she was talking to Lord Nash." She turned a searching glance around the room, but her niece wasn't there.

"Perhaps she has returned to the gaming room. I saw her there earlier, in conversation with Lord Andrew."

Gabriella sighed. "More likely she has gone off somewhere by herself. The closer we get to her birthday, the more worried I become." She returned her attention to Elizabeth. "I may have made a mistake, Beth. I don't think she is ready."

"I've been thinking that myself."

"For me it was different. I was enamored of my first lover and at least half dozen other of my admirers. My only difficulty in choosing a protector came in knowing I would have to give up the rest—at least for a time. Most of my liaisons didn't last long, not in the beginning. Since Claymont, I haven't felt the restlessness I felt back then."

"I think he loves you."

"Claymont? Perhaps he does. He says so often enough."

"What about you? Do you love him?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "What would it matter? Dylan is an earl. We live in two different worlds."

Elizabeth gazed toward her sandy-haired husband across the drawing room. "Speak to Vermillion," she said. "Tell her she doesn't have to choose unless she wishes it. She's a woman now. Tell her whatever decision she makes should be her own."

Gabriella nodded. Once again, she scanned the room for her niece, but Vermillion wasn't there.


Closing the terrace door softly behind him, Caleb stepped into the darkened study. He slid the draperies closed behind him and went in search of illumination. A brass lamp sat on a Hepplewhite table. Lifting the chimney, he struck flint to tinder and lit the wick, and a soft yellow glow filled the room.

Caleb held up the lamp to survey his surroundings, found himself in a large, wood-paneled, book-lined room. A burgundy leather sofa and chairs clustered before the marble-manteled hearth. A rosewood desk sat in front of the windows, a comfortable leather chair resting on the polished wooden floor behind it. A crystal inkwell and a white plumed pen in a silver holder sat on a felt ink blotter on the desktop.

He didn't waste time, just carried the lamp to the desk, sat down in the chair, and began to pull open the drawers. Estate ledgers took up most of the bottom one. He drew out the heavy leather volume, cracked it open and scanned the pages, but didn't see anything of interest.

The second drawer was devoted to Parklands' Thoroughbred racing operation. Each horse the stable owned had been entered into a leather ledger but the handwriting was different from the other he had seen, the letters smaller, well formed, and precise. He imagined the writing must be Lee's and closed the book, refusing to let his mind be distracted by thoughts of her.

Instead he studied the contents of the rest of the drawers, then searched the desk for some sort of lever that might conceal a hiding place of some kind. Finding nothing, his frustration mounted. He was closing the top drawer, still seated in the chair, when the ornate door swung open and light spilled into the study.

He had been certain he would hear footfalls against the marble floor of the hall, but these had been light, the merest shuffle of small, feminine feet encased in butter-soft kidskin, and he had not noticed. Caleb silently cursed as Lee walked into the room and firmly closed the door.

"What are you doing in here?"

She was looking at him as if she had discovered a thief, which in a way, she had.

"I suppose I could ask that question of you, but it is, after all, your house. You have a right to be in here."

"That's right. And you don't."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps I needed a respite from the party."

"You were going through the desk." She walked toward him, her spine straight and anger snapping in her eyes. "What were you looking for, Caleb? What else haven't you told me?"

He thought of lying, but he had lied to her too many times already. And he trusted her. It was a good thing because the moment she had stepped into the room, he'd had no other choice.

"Lock the door. What I'm going to tell you can't go anywhere other than this room."

She hesitated for a moment, then went over and turned the key in the lock as he wished he had done. The narrow skirt of her topaz gown brushed her hips as she walked back to where he stood beside the desk.

"First I want you to know that by telling you this, I am disobeying orders."

"And why, pray tell, would you do that?"

He sighed, raked a hand through his hair, wished she wouldn't keep looking at him that way. "Because I've lied to you enough. Because, in the time I've known you, I've come to trust you. And because I could use your help."

Her features didn't soften. "Go on."

"There's a spy at Parklands. I'm here to catch him." Or her, but he didn't say that. Instead he told her what they had discovered so far, explained that General Wellesley believed that the casualties in Spain would have been considerably reduced if certain information hadn't reached the enemy—information that seemed to have come from Parklands.

"That's absurd. I don't believe a word of it—not for a moment. This is just another one of your lies."

"I'm through lying, Lee. If I could have told you the truth before, I would have done it. I shouldn't be telling you this now."