Heiress? Beau hacked out cigar smoke. Bloody hell! She’d enticed him—a total stranger—to a pleasure garden after dark and was chased by two villains. She could get herself kidnapped or worse! “A beautiful, rich, young woman should be buried in offers.”
“She’s managed to maintain a youthful appearance, but she’s almost thirty.” Thomas took a long draw on his cigar and tipped his head back to blow smoke toward the carved rafters. “No, I’m afraid she’s quite on the shelf.”
“Truly? We’re nearly the same age, and I’m in the prime of my life.” Any woman who returned his kisses the way she had definitely was not on the shelf either.
“Did you hear her outbursts toward Lord Falgate at dinner? Quite off color. She has strange spells too.” Thomas shook his head and muttered, “Unpredictable woman.” After subtly checking about them, his brother leaned in, frowning, and said sotto voce, “Falgate has a dubious reputation, rumored to be in hock up to his wrinkled cravat. His wife supposedly fell off a bridge. Her body was never found.
Beau’s brows went up. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“Long story. Our wives were friends since childhood.” Thomas leaned to his other foot as he quickly peered about them and whispered, “It’s rumored he’s consorts with a bad lot, blackguards all. But he still has powerful connections, can be extremely ruthless when his ire’s up, and is a crack shot when he’s sober. It’s prudent to stay in his good books.”
Taking another puff on his cigar, Beau considered what his brother said. “How did Falgate end up seated next to Miss Collins?”
“He insisted Lady Grancliffe place him there. Evidently, he hoped to gain leverage with Miss Collins for the friendship she also had with his wife. Or perhaps, he hoped he could impress her with his title and status in the House of Lords. Who knows?” Thomas darted a look to the far corner where Lord Falgate slouched in a large armchair. His snores carried across the room.
“Surely she can do better.” Even in repose the man looked dangerous. Beau had known men like him in prison. Darkness seemed to swirl about them. Some had the uncanny ability to sleep with one eye open. “Clearly the fellow is in need of a new money purse. Don’t you have a ‘must introduce’ list for Miss Collins too?”
“Shot through it long ago. Falgate knows the story. You see, Miss Collins’s mama gave her specific marching orders. She must land herself a titled husband before she will be welcomed back into New York society.”
His brother placed his empty glass on a side table and turned back to Beau. Through puffs on his cigar he spoke in a confidential tone, “For the first year, or so, Miss Collins dedicated herself to the task like a general laying siege to a keep. One or two indigent titles showed interest and were willing to overlook her problems and past. Eventually her true colors came through. Even the most determined sought greener, saner pastures. Word got around, don’t you know.”
“Maybe she just needs proper instruction. We shouldn’t hold it against her if she grew up with the mongrel hoards in New York City.”
“Dear brother, it’s more than cultural differences! She’s been here a decade. We’ve talked ourselves hoarse trying to convince her she only reinforces the rumors of instability with outbursts like those at dinner. She truly acts chastened and then does it again. I’ve a mind, deep down, our Miss Collins hates men.”
Beau slowly rolled his cigar in his mouth remembering how her soft, full lips moved so delightfully under his and how her lush body melted against him. He jerked the cigar from his mouth. “There must be some mistake.”
His brother’s expression grew reflective. “Had a mare like her once. Refused every stud we presented. Nearly gelded one or two we had mount—”
Mount. Dear God. “Well I—” Beau coughed as he struggled to keep a provocative image of he and C.C. from his mind. Fatigue, too much brandy and now this added bit of mischief made his head pound. Pinching his eyes together, he blinked and grasped for some topic to erase the image. “Does she have outbursts with women?”
“Never seen one. Can’t say she’s ever spoken to me in any way but cordial either. Odd woman, our Auntie Cali. The insanity must come from her American mother’s side.”
Thomas turned and slapped Beau on the back. “I’ve a wonderful wife and must occasionally brush up against some of her crazy relatives. You, on the other hand, are free to keep whatever company suits you. Miss Collins is a pretty package but believe me, you can do better.”
C.C. wrapped her arms around her middle as she paced back and forth across her bedchamber’s plush carpet. If she had to wait much longer her shoulders would soon ride her hairline. Out of the stillness, footsteps quietly shuffled down the outside hallway. A door lock clicked. She walked to the fireplace and gazed at the Ormolu clock. One a.m.
Grasping her wineglass off the mantel, she took a gulp to calm her frustration. Would people never go to bed and stay there?
No doubt, Lord Falgate was lurking somewhere nearby. What was that villain up to? When she’d met him ten years before he’d been involved in some kind of shady dockyard warehousing. She’d no difficulty seeing past his good looks and contrived charm to a hidden agenda.
Poor naïve Sarah fell ears over toes for him and brought a sizable income to their marriage. When she died mysteriously, everything pointed to Falgate, yet he never faced charges. Selfish lords could murder their wives with impunity. Yet mere innuendo could ruin a woman’s life. C.C. curled her lips in disgust. The man needed a comeuppance, or at the very least, a good shot of guilt. Sarah deserved some kind of justice.
She gazed around her room. Amelia, her cousin, now Lady Grancliffe, had given C.C. this chamber ten years before when she’d first arrived from New York. During those bleak days she’d passed her time naming things. The roses growing beneath her window had received special attention. She’d labeled the big red ones, Crimson Mortification; the small whites, Hoary Humiliation and the yellows, Cowardly Disgrace.
Since then her cousin had redecorated. Now the walls and upholstery also blossomed in reds, whites and yellows. The room was lovely, but the ghosts of self-condemnation and shame didn’t easily submit to bright paint, new furniture or patched plaster. Such heavy emotions had probably long since fused to the very spine of the room. C.C. knew when she curled into a tight ball of loneliness and pain that only purple had the strength to endure the darkness.
The night was ticking by. Clasping her mother’s tattered letter between her hands, she listened for sounds of servants or guests. I’m sorry I’m not there yet, Mama. But with Captain Tollier’s help, I will be soon. Her heart fluttered at the thought of him…and his kisses. Drat the man. He’d taken her by surprise at Cremorne. She was tired and a little tipsy, but one way or another, tonight she would get his agreement.
Her lady’s maid had helped her change into her night rail. Over that, she donned a floor-length velvet cloak, preparing to leave. When finally satisfied everyone was abed and asleep, she placed the letter on the stand near her bed and slowly opened her door. Carrying a small lamp, she crept through long corridors to the almost unoccupied east wing. The blue apartments, she’d been told.
C.C. stopped outside the suite’s door and tried to compose herself. Even though visiting Captain Tollier’s room was highly improper, at least it should be private. She didn’t want Falgate or anyone else interrupting this time.
A faint squeak of metal echoed in the vast marble corridor. Quickly extinguishing the lamp, she glanced about the shadowed darkness. Icy rivulets raced down her spine. No one could know of this visit. She certainly didn’t want to cause a scandal under her cousin’s roof.
Carefully turning the handle, she entered and closed the