Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 15

  Completely unrepentant, he stepped back, out of toe-poking’s way, and slid his hand from around her neck to clasp them both behind his back. He gave her a slight bow. “As to that, ’tis neither here nor there. I pay him well enough.”

  Franklin was her betrothed’s most efficient valet. The man responsible for keeping Erasmus in such a fine twig. Today he wore midnight-blue pantaloons, rain-spattered—but still impressively shiny—Hessians, an embroidered waistcoat in ivory, and a burgundy tailcoat, with everything topped off by the most majestic neckcloth arrangement she’d yet to see grace his publicly haughty self.

  For herself? She’d quickly ascertained the arrogant air was a pretense. A convincing one, to be sure. Though he might bluster about in front of others and make demands in public, in private? In private, when he wasn’t trying her patience—and causing little darts of exciting unease to trample her midsection as he’d just done—he could be all that was considerate. Charming even, a time or four.

  When she wasn’t noticing something deeper, darker.

  As she did now. Now that she’d moved beyond her initial surprise and hair-induced angst, she looked beyond the exhaustion and studied him. Noticed the polished veneer seemed just that—a little more forced, a tad less authentic. Noticed his increasing discomfiture the longer she stared.

  He took another step back, shifted his regular russet-brown gaze of the moment (no glow in evidence) toward the rattling window—brown being such an insipid word to describe the deep luster of his eyes.

  She followed his retreat, to better gauge his response. “What is it? What has happened? Your trip home—did it not go as planned? Is your family well?”

  He looked startled, though he tried to hide it, the depths of his rich, russet eyes more haunted than she’d seen in a long while.

  “And pray, do not claim ’tis nothing,” she instructed when his tongue dallied—giving his garret time to come up with a clanker, no doubt. “I can see something’s occurred. Something that troubles you greatly. How may I be of assistance? Tell me, please.”

  He brought his arms around, clasped his hands together in front—a white-knuckled grip that gave him away.

  “Erasmus?”

  Seeing the direction of her gaze, he slid his fingers apart and made a great show of smoothing his already perfect attire. Then he retrieved his tall hat from where he’d placed it upon his arrival, and raised it between them like a metaphorical shield—then started worrying the brim. “’Tis nothing you can help with. Merely a trifle. Disregard it.”

  At least he didn’t lie to her, deny that there was something going on. “Merely a trifle, hmm? My…” she challenged, not attempting to subdue her sarcasm, “you rumbled that out as though you mean it.”

  He gave her a condescending look that clobbered her over the head. “I most assuredly do. Leave my concerns to me.” Whatever bothered him now was great indeed for him to draw up haughty and stiff with her, with no one else around to witness the charade.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a sharp shake, then blinked them open, giving her what—in another man—might be considered a contrite, almost apologetic look. “Please, my dear.” His lungs expanded on a full inhale, contracted on his loud exhale. “Today is for you.” His posture relaxed—as much as it could, with him nearly strangling the stuffing out of his poor, innocent hat brim. He gave her a tight smile. “I have been looking forward to delighting you with a certain excursion. Do not take that from me.”

  Not a trifle her aunt’s plump posterior.

  “Well, my lord, when you put it like that…” She strove to erase any evidence of confrontation from her countenance. “How may I assist you, then?”

  “Grant me the pleasure of your company and think of nothing more than enjoying yourself without worrying over trifles, that is all I require. All I desire.”

  “Consider it done.” And consider my curiosity delayed, not forgotten.

  “Your cloak and cousins?” Back to his customary polish, now that she wasn’t hounding him, she noticed, his fingers took to tapping lightly upon his hat instead of mangling it. “Mayhap an umbrella if you have one at hand? I can battle the storms well enough for you, but cannot block them sufficiently if we add another three to our number.”

  “I believe that can be arranged—the umbrella.”

  She let him have his way. She might want to share his burdens, feel an absurdly strong desire to ease them completely if she could, but she, more than most, recognized the value in keeping one’s own counsel.

  She’d respect his need for privacy. For now. Especially since he’d shaken off what worried him to give her a true smile, even if it didn’t manage to completely mask the concern from his eyes. “And the others?” he queried. “Cloak and cousins?”

  “In my room and in Brighton. Aunt Pru decided I had quite enough caused sufficient uproar with our precipitous announcement catching the collective ton off-guard and knocking her matrimonial plans for me askew. When Patience’s betrothed suggested a holiday, she jumped, taking herself and my cousins off early yesterday.” Indicating, the evening before, when she’d ordered the trunks brought round, ’twas Francine’s duty to maintain things here. Alone. “She knows me not at all, if she considers leaving me here a punishment.”

  ’Twas the most relaxed Francine had felt in ages, what with her uncle off on another trip which left Francine inhabiting the townhouse with the few servants who remained. The life of an independent woman could not come soon enough for her.

  But that means no more surprise visits or unexpected outings from Lord Blakely.

  The price one must pay for happiness…

  Shaking off the maddening reminder, she asked, “Where are we off to? How shall I dress?”

  “Do you not comprehend the meaning of surprise? You shall find out upon our arrival. Not a moment before. And your current attire”—he gestured from her neck to her feet, but not her head, she couldn’t help but notice—“is more than adequate.”

  “Have I time to work a miracle and dress my hair?” ’Twas an exercise in restraint, to not reach upward and try to disguise the disaster she now inadvertently drew attention toward, but then, not wanting to leave him alone with whatever thoughts troubled him so, she suggested instead, “Or a bonnet, perhaps? That should tidy matters sufficiently.” And swiftly.

  “And spectacles—keep those with you,” he called after her as she raced from the room. “It might be dim in places and I promise that you will want to see all you can.”

  10

  The Mummy and the other Marquis

  Dearest Erasmus,

  Now that we have confirmed, beyond wretched certainty, what happened to your father, God rest his tortured soul, I leave these letters for both you and your brother as I depart upon my own quest.

  Please, Erasmus, heed me on this: do not attempt to follow me. Watch over yourself and our home. Watch out for your younger brother. Read these pages with diligence and care, committing all that resides within to memory.

  Heed these warnings. Take the snippets of advice and build upon them.

  Most of all, my dear boy, live your life.

  Do not let the Dire Tenants set forth herein and the responsibilities your father now tasks you with to drain from you every ounce of joy.

  Find love and your own redemption wherever, however—and from whomever—you may.

  If my journey proves successful, I’ll rejoin you both by next June, before either you or your cousin have to fight The Change on your own for the first time.

  If it does not…

  If I am not successful at what I now seek, at what I must do…

  Then, forgive me, for I may be absent an indefinite amount of time. While I am away, I shall send my love hourly.

  Your Loving Mama

  (who must now #### ### ### ####### ## ### ###### ###########)

  * * *

  The last line of script was scrawled through so many times as to be completely illegible. What had called
to his mother sufficiently to take her from them?

  To keep her away for long months, before sending yet another letter, this one telling him she’d found what she needed, and wouldn’t be returning? Ever…

  Hours earlier today, exhausted by the long night, needing a measure of solace once he returned home, Erasmus had eased his flat palm and outstretched fingers over the well-worn missive. The one he’d first seen bundled around the letters that had changed the course of his life once sufficient time—and tragedy—passed to the point that he believed.

  Live your life.

  His dear mother’s counsel.

  Live. His life.

  Should he? Dare he?

  But now…

  With this latest revelation. Was it just a coincidence?

  Or was it more. An omen?

  A direct link? To his club.

  A mere two blocks away.

  A direct threat to the other women who worked there.

  A direct threat to Francine.

  The moment they stepped inside the museum, his nose wrinkled. What was that? Peculiar smell for an exhibit advertised as: Flora of the Globe. Upon hearing of it, he’d known at once how much his unintended intended would appreciate such a thing. How he now had a legitimate reason to rush his business and race back to London.

  But ew, what was that noxious scent? Nash would no doubt know in an instant, his brother’s unparalleled beak putting even Erasmus’s impressive one to shame.

  Beside him, his lovely companion inhaled clear to her slippers. “Oh my, how lovely!”

  “You do not notice anything…amiss?” Rotting?

  She fairly beamed at him, then gave the muscles in his forearm, where her hand lightly rested, a quick, finger-clenching hug. “Only the fragrance of blooms not yet studied nor committed to memory. I declare, you most darling of men, your surprise is beyond thoughtful!”

  He tried not to snort at that. “‘Darling’? Please, my dear, do not let such a rumor abound. ’Twould quite destroy my hard-earned disreputable reputation.”

  At his side, she fairly buzzed with the need to explore, but she stilled of a sudden and gazed up at him. “You know your secrets are safe with me, my lord. All of them.”

  When she stared intently at him just-so… When she left off with her usual lighthearted mien and became serious… When she calmly held his gaze as though peering into his soul, it never failed to raise his awareness of her and heighten his interest.

  It should be raising your guard.

  Yet still, underlining the perfume of the plants she found so intoxicating, that odd offal made his nose twitch. To clear his brain of the unwelcome odor, he flicked the much-needed bonnet to the side, then pushed it off altogether, letting the ribbons securing it beneath her chin do their job of keeping it from the floor.

  “God’s teeth and witches’ tits, Francy, but you possess enough frizz to stuff a mattress.”

  “Francy?”

  “Aye, an amalgam of fancy and your name.” Something he’d thought of in the wee hours of the morning—when he should have been sleeping or pondering solutions to troubling thoughts, not indulging in arousing, fanciful ones. “Or does it bother you?”

  “Though it is only one small S-sound away from Franny, it does not. Not in the least.” She tilted that inviting, stubborn chin toward him. “Now, what was that you were saying about my head belonging between the sheets?”

  He barked a laugh somewhere between a chuckle and a guffaw. “There is much of you I would like to see between the sheets, but that is neither here nor there today. Although, now that I think on it, is that not one of the few places we have yet to indulge?”

  That frank speaking had her scrambling behind her back for the recalcitrant bonnet. Once she had it in her possession, she started patting the mess atop her head and narrowed her eyes at him, directing her gaze upward past her forehead. “You wretch, to remind me.”

  “Nay, not yet.” He halted her frantic bonnet-dressing motions by shackling both her wrists in one hand while he leaned down, halting at the top of her head, to inhale her clean scent.

  Ah, heather and sunshine. Francine.

  “Erasmus. What are you—”

  “Partial improvement.” So he did it again, burying his nose in her disarrayed ringlets where they dangled just over one ear.

  “Stop that, you knave,” she giggled, if anything, coming up on her toes and arching her neck for even better access.

  “Tickly?”

  “Tingling.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Then she was off, dragging him hither and yon, exploring the wide variety of flowering plants and other specimens that had been brought in for the exhibit with a wild abandon that helped erase, at least for the first hour, the niggling worry that seemed to be his constant companion these days.

  He’d been right.

  Only years of practice kept the gloat from his expression.

  From the moment he’d brought his betrothed into her element, his little independent, scientifically minded miss had been reduced to one-word, chuckle-headed squeals of delight, marveling over the botany exhibits with all the enthusiasm of a child going sledding for the first time. “Brilliant! Prime! Zounds!”

  While she’d flitted higgledy piggledy like a boosey butterfly from one specimen to another, exclaiming, reading the placards aloud, he’d drawn upon every ounce—every year—of experience at his disposal, perfecting the art of portraying sincere interest. Pretending.

  Because for the first time—the only time—since they’d met, entertaining, wholly engaging Lady Francine, of the fashionable coils and unfashionable spectacles, did not command his full attention.

  Not because he was bored.

  Not because he tired of her and wanted to end their arrangement early—heaven forfend. In fact, he’d become quite fond of her innocent wonder over things he took for granted or never thought to notice. (“Erasmus, did you see this majestic leaf? Why, ’tis as wide as your forearm is long. Come, let me compare!”)

  Not because he wanted to be rid of her—perish the thought.

  Because he feared for her life.

  And not at his eventually clawed hands. Which made the worry triply concerning.

  Last night at The Den—

  He swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that rose at the images that churned to the surface once he cracked the lid off recent memories, allowed them to command more of his attention than he’d like…

  The Previous Night

  ’Twas late—or early morning, depending upon how one viewed things—when Erasmus let himself into The Den via his covert passage.

  The entrance that led straight to his private office by means of the other private office he used at times. This particular space disguised further by a small storage room. One complete with a secret door and corridor that let him access—or exit—his club without it being obvious.

  Part of the beauty of owning more than one building along this street and leasing the portions adjacent to his club to a mercantile and a pair of apothecaries that shared a common storage section along the back and entertained customers during daytime hours only, which gave him further freedom.

  With only the front portions of these businesses open to the public, the remainder reserved for merchandise and administrative concerns, ’twas easy enough to construct a connecting corridor between the buildings, to reserve the space leading to it for his personal use as part of the lease terms put forth by his solicitor.

  Gave him the ability to come and go as he pleased, with no one the wiser, save Adam, the only other person with the keys—and permission—to use both.

  Even the misters Worsley, Everett and Grimshaw, the proprietors of the neighboring enterprises, did not possess a key to his private area, or the wherewithal to know what all went on next door, in the hours their shops were closed, much less the means to access either.

  He made his way through the darkened interior of Worsley’s, no candle necessary given the sparse stree
t lamps reflecting through the curtained front window, stepped around a stack of boxed inventory not yet received and blithely made his way to his office in The Den, locking each door behind him as a matter of habit. Ingrained caution and all that.

  Travel weary but relieved to be home, he’d stopped off at his townhouse to let his coachman and carriage horses turn in for the night before hailing a rare hackney for himself. At nearly three in the morning, no sense rousing staff and equines to require another team be made ready.

  Not when he expected naught but a brief report to ensure Adam fared well during his brief absence. Then ’twas straight to bed.

  And the lovely, lively Francine a few hours after that…

  A time or two in the last weeks he’d started to wonder whether he ought to be wooing her in truth.

  But nay. Though more suited to him than he could imagine any other if he searched the world over, Francine remained so blasted determined to gain her vaunted independence. Making sure to remind him once or twice a week that she hadn’t changed her mind. Would jilt him as planned. That she valued her blighted freedom above all else.

  Well, damn it.

  What if he wanted her to value him above all else?

  What if he’d come to care—and far more than was wise?

  What if you come to destroy the one person you want a future with?

  Aye. That exactly.

  Hell. He had half a mind to stop being so free with his favors. Ha. As if you could stop the sun from rising.

  Mayhap, though…

  A little less frisking; a little more flirtation?

  Satisfaction roared through him as he contemplated the notion.

  Shaking off the distraction, however pleasant, he left his Den office and sauntered out onto the main floor, finding Adam at his command post, exactly where he’d expect to: the pulpit-type podium he’d sequestered from somewhere to act as his informal office. The ornate wooden platform, complete with open shelves, locked drawers and secret compartments, where he stood as gatekeeper and self-appointed Guardian to their exclusive, by-invitation-only club. Where his business partner and closest friend oversaw everything from membership to supply orders to the well-being of their working “ladies”.