Beyond A Wicked Kiss Page 17

  "I believe I noted that when you were still hovering at my bedside. Now our position is choosing to be hanged for a sheep instead of a lamb. Still, I shall count on you to dive under the bed in the event someone approaches."

  "Of course."

  "You are being uncharacteristically accommodating."

  She shrugged. "Perhaps it is because I really do not expect an interruption. I locked your door."

  West lifted his head an inch and then let it thump back against the bedhead. For a moment he closed his eyes. "Damnation, Ria, that is not the sort of thing you tell a man who has just invited you to share his bed."

  "Oh, did you mean to be a gentleman? I thought it was all in aid of making another advance."

  "Well, if it was, I'm not likely to say so, am I? And if you thought I was offering warmth as a lure, why did you not have the good sense to refuse it?" He held up one hand, staving off her reply. "Never mind. It cannot be important now. I cannot tell whether you trust me so much or so little."

  Ria did not know the answer to that herself, so she was glad when he did not pose it as a question. "Shall I leave now?"

  "Stay or go. It is your choice."

  It did not feel so very much like a choice. Stay or go. There were arguments for both sides of the matter, yet her innate sense of honesty compelled her to admit that she was not interested in those points that would influence her to leave. "I want to stay."

  West sighed and glanced sideways at her. She was cocooned in the blankets, but they were protection only against the cold, not him. "Are you a virgin, Miss Ashby?"

  Ria's entire body jerked. It was not simply the question, but the manner in which he asked it that repelled her. Something chilly had crept into his voice and there was no evidence of genuine curiosity. Rather it seemed to her that he was indifferent of the answer and asked it more to gauge her reaction than receive a reply. The fact that he had called her Miss Ashby when moments earlier she had been Ria, was also telling of the distance he meant to put between them.

  "Well?" West asked.

  "I think I will leave after all."

  He nodded. "As you wish."

  Ria shivered once as she flung off the covers and set her feet on the floor. Her fingers trembled slightly until she had her hand firmly around the candlestick. "I can think of no reason I should have to trouble you again," she said quietly. "This night or any other."

  "Then you underestimate yourself. I'm certain something will occur to you if you apply yourself."

  Ria bit back a reply but did not move away from the bed. She hovered there much as she had when she'd first entered West's room. Sleeping, he had looked far younger than his years, vaguely innocent of life's petty cruelties, untroubled by thoughts that there was anything he might not conquer. It was naught but a fancy on her part; she suspected that even as a youth, his sleep had been disturbed by restlessness and fear. There was nothing to be gained by remembering the boy he had been when this was the man he had become.

  "Yes?" he asked. "There is something you wish to say?"

  "You will still find Jane, won't you? You do not mean to change your mind about that."

  West was silent for a long time, considering his answer. "It pains me that you are uncertain," he said at last. "But it occurs that I have myself to blame for that. Yes, I mean to find Jane. Whatever our grievances with each other, Jane is separate from them."

  Ria nodded once, then left as quietly as she'd come.

  * * *

  West left for Sunbury shortly before eight. The servants had long been about, but neither Tenley nor Margaret had risen. Ria was also abed. All of this made West's departure easier. He penned an explanation for whoever was the first to inquire after him and left it with the butler. That the explanation bore little in the way of details did not bother him. Ria would probably deduce his destination, and Tenley and Margaret did not need to know.

  The tidy and charming village of Sunbury lay thirteen miles southwest of Ambermede. West had chosen Mr. Jonathan Beckwith as his first contact on the academy's board of governors because of his proximity to both the school and the manor. He was in no expectation that his visit would be welcomed beyond what was afforded by his new station. If Ria was correct, he would be politely denied a seat on the board of governors, no matter what influence he brought to bear. She understood that much without knowing the board had connections to the Society of Bishops. What made West hopeful that they might entertain his application was that at their center, they were suspicious to a fault. If he piqued their interest just enough, they might draw him in to observe him. Keeping him close and under their watchful eye was better than allowing him to do as he pleased.

  It had been a favorite tactic at Hambrick. West doubted that time had changed the Society's fundamental approach to keeping their secrets.

  West's arrival without announcement or invitation, without a letter of introduction, and finally without an entourage, created the greatest stir for everyone residing at the Beckwith estate. Currently that numbered twenty-eight: the confirmed bachelor Mr. Jonathan Beckwith and twenty-seven servants, including the grooms, who had their sleeping quarters at the back of the stable, and the estate steward who had very pleasant accommodations above the newly built carriage house.

  Mr. Beckwith was about to spread butter on his toast when West's presence was announced. Beckwith immediately ordered his breakfast tray to be taken away and his clothes set out. West should be made comfortable in the gallery and invited to breakfast, he told his man; then, after they knew the purpose of the visit, they would decide what must be done to make everything agreeable for the new Duke of Westphal.

  West was in no hurry to make his host's acquaintance. He accepted the invitation to wait in the gallery with equanimity and used the time while Beckwith was making his ablutions and fussing with his stock to tour the room and study the host of paintings on display. The traditional and unexceptional landscapes, still lifes, hunting scenes, and family portraits were not terribly interesting to him, but taken as a whole, they created a broader picture of the man Beckwith imagined himself to be, or at least the one he wished to show his guests. West thought the choice of the gallery as a place for him to cool his heels was most deliberate, and one that had probably been used to great success before as a way of introducing Beckwith to his guests. Here was the pretense of intimacy, for it was infinitely less intimate than being shown to a man's study, where one might see what sort of books he read, the type of cigars he preferred, his tastes in liquor, and what importance he placed on his own comforts.

  West was determining how he might create the opportunity to see more of the house, especially the less public rooms, when Beckwith entered the gallery. They exchanged greetings, with Beckwith waving aside West's apologies for the abruptness of his visit.

  Jonathan Beckwith stood half a head shorter than West and possessed a slender frame well suited to the current fashion for clothes that were elegant but not ostentatious. He made a good leg in his long, narrow knitted pantaloons, white stockings, and blue tailcoat. His cravat was carefully knotted, but not intricately so, suggesting that he had no use for the fussing required of a more complicated pattern, or that he had been impatient to make his way to the gallery. His one conceit was his hair, for he had taken the time to make certain his heavy brown locks were in studied disarray and that the thinning spot at the back of his head was concealed. It was seldom that he was mistaken for a man approaching his forty-third year; most often he was thought to be a full decade younger.

  West took the time to politely inquire after some of the paintings, successfully delaying Beckwith from delving into the purpose of his visit. Because West wanted to control the interview, he was able to engage his host in circumnavigating the gallery before agreeing it was time to accompany him to the breakfast room.

  "I had not heard you were up from London," Beckwith said after they had been served baked eggs and thin slices of ham. "I find that plainly astonishing. Word usually travels m
ore swiftly. One always knew when your father was in residence at Ambermede."

  "I had not realized his coming and going invited such interest. He was not one for entertaining."

  "You are right, but that did not stop people from speculating that he might. There was no figure more widely known in these parts than your father." Beckwith continued in the same vein, expressing his condolences at the duke's passing and treading carefully around the change in West's own circumstances. "Your journey was uneventful, I hope."

  "It was." West took a bite of his eggs. "I imagine I will be making it several times a year now, so I find it a good omen that this one went well. You must be speculating on the reason for my call."

  "It has been a question in my mind," Beckwith said raising a triangle of buttered toast to his mouth. "You honor me by singling me out for a visit, for I am not, after all, what one can properly call a neighbor. It occurs to me that Miss Weaver's Academy might figure into the explanation for your arrival."

  "Very good," West said. "Then you know that Miss Ashby is now my ward."

  "I was not certain, actually. I knew, of course, that she was your father's ward, but I was not privy to the details of that arrangement following his death. It did not come up in her recent correspondence as it had no bearing on her position at the academy. Is there a problem? You are perhaps not similarly inclined to allow her to continue her employment as headmistress? I feel compelled to point out that it would be a great loss for the students and her fellow teachers, but I would understand if that was your decision."

  "Then you realize it was an indulgence on the duke's part to permit her such latitude when he could have insisted that she marry."

  "Naturally." Beckwith lifted his teacup and studied West over the rim before he sipped from it. "It was remarked upon from time to time."

  "Remarked upon? By whom?"

  "By the board of governors. We were always pleased to have Miss Ashby at the academy, but it would have been irresponsible not to question our good fortune." He smiled faintly, in the manner of one sharing confidences with an old friend, then replaced his cup in its saucer. "One always wondered when the duke would set his mind on another course for her. Miss Ashby's association with your father was not exploited by the school, but neither was it overlooked. It lent a tacit importance to Miss Weaver's Academy that the school had not enjoyed before."

  "I wonder what you will say to my proposal of a more direct connection," West said, gauging Beckwith's reaction while he continued to tuck into his meal. "I am of a mind to allow Miss Ashby to remain at the school. She has expressed no interest in marrying, and I have no wish to insist that she should. However, I am not willing to indulge her as excessively as my father did. I have made it my concern to learn more about the school and have been largely pleased with the particulars. I have decided I should like to lend the consequence of my title to the good efforts being made on behalf of these students."

  "And if your involvement with the academy provides you the means to keep Miss Ashby on a short tether, so much the better."

  West swore that Beckwith almost winked at him. Suppressing his desire to put the man's face in his eggs, West offered a faintly conspiratorial smile instead. "You have it almost exactly."

  "Almost?"

  "In light of the recent disappearance of one of the academy's students, I am as concerned for Miss Ashby's safety as I am for shortening that tether."

  "Ah, she has seen fit to inform you of the girl's elopement. I cannot say that I like it."

  "I'm sure it is the sort of situation your board of governors wishes to keep quiet. All of the girls are not charity students, after all, and there are parents enough who might very well raise questions."

  "Which would lead to Miss Ashby's dismissal," Beckwith said. "She is the one with the most to lose by not keeping confidences." He waved this statement aside immediately.

  "Though it is misplaced, her concern—and, might I add, yours—is admirable."

  "Misplaced? How is that?"

  "While it defies common sense, there are always those girls who do not appreciate their good fortune and choose to leave. This most recent one... Miss Petry... she is not—"

  "Petty," West said. "Miss Jane Petty."

  "Yes, that's right. As I was saying, Miss Petty is not the first to take her leave of the school without notice. It is hardly a regular occurrence, but it happens now and again. Miss Ashby has informed you that we are employing someone to look into the girl's disappearance?"

  "Yes. And also that nothing has come of it. I am considering making inquiries of my own."

  "I am certain that is not necessary. She will turn up soon enough. Soiled goods, unless I miss my guess, mostly likely with a swollen belly to show for it, and without benefit of banns having been read or a special license."

  "That will be a relief, I think, for Miss Ashby," West told him. "It is Miss Petty's cold remains that she fears will turn up."

  Chapter 7

  By West's reckoning, it was nearing two o'clock in the morning when he saw the manor at Ambermede again. His view from the back of Draco was unobstructed at this curve in the road, and the silvery cast of the fall moon's light illuminated / every snow-covered hillock, valley, and open field. The manor was positioned like a jewel in a deep bed of white velvet, a diamond itself with the moonshine glancing off its stone walls.

  West tugged on Draco's reins, slowing the mount to a walk, then halting him. Looking around, West realized what it was about this particular view that tickled his memory. Off to his left was the lake, iced over now but still visible by the outline of its banks. There, too, was the stand of trees—beeches, firs, oaks—and the venerable and stately chestnut that he had loved to climb in his youth.

  A slight change in the pressure of his knees was all the encouragement Draco needed to start walking, this time turning off the road toward the wood. When they reached the chestnut, West stopped his horse again and looked up. The branches of the tree were perfectly limned by moonlight and snow, and West could follow the route he had taken to the top. Accounting for the growth of the last twenty years, West realized he had not much exaggerated the height and breadth of this great tree in his own mind. He had no trouble finding the peculiar cradle of the branches that had held him safely while he surveyed all of the countryside. Seeing the precariousness of that position now, and the considerable distance it was from the ground, West wondered that he had not broken his neck either in an attempt to reach it or leave it.

  He lowered his head and let his gaze fall on the lake. Without quite realizing that he'd signaled Draco to do so, the stallion began heading in that direction. Draco carefully picked his way along the edge of the bank until West stopped him. Judging the distance from the woods and the perspective of the lake from this angle to be the right one, West was satisfied he had come upon the very spot where he had jumped into the water to pull young Ria out.

  All these years later, it was still a question in his mind if he had really been the cause of her tumbling into the water. Was his effort to pull her up short the thing that made her take the spill? If he hadn't left the tree, would she still have run into the lake? He knew how he remembered the incident, but on occasion he wondered if his memory played him false. Why had no other person seen what he had? If he was innocent, why had his father flayed the skin from his back?

  A shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the air or the frozen landscape made West turn Draco away abruptly and set off for the road and Ambermede.

  * * *

  Ria could not sleep. She had managed to hide her concern regarding West's long absence from Tenley and Margaret, but that had been during the day when there were activities to occupy her, chief among them avoiding being alone with Tenley. The children helped by being eager for her company and willing to do whatever she suggested. With the assistance of the groundskeeper and one of his lads, they built a snow castle with crenelated embattlements. Caroline wanted to live there in relative peace as
princess; William wanted to lay siege to it. William's warlike inclinations triumphed, and the ensuing flurry of snowballs caught each of them at one time or another.

  Building and battling in the snow could not occupy the whole of the day, however, and when tempers wore thin, Ria moved the children back inside for their lessons. While they were attended by their governess, Ria enjoyed a short visit with the infant James, then sought out Margaret for adult companionship. There were questions about West's enigmatic missive and subsequent departure to be carefully turned aside, but it was not too difficult to accomplish as Margaret was certain the cause of it lay with the previous evening's kiss and West's discomfort with the tendre Ria had developed for him.

  "You have given the game away," Margaret had scolded her gently, "by being entirely too forward."

  Ria had agreed this was probably the way of it and let Margaret speak at length on the cowardly nature of men when they were confronted by a woman's tender feelings. During Margaret's argument, Tenley joined them briefly, and Ria noted that he offered nothing in his defense, or in defense of his sex. He backed out of the room as quickly as possible after seizing a book that he'd supposedly wanted.

  When the doors closed behind him, Margaret had given Ria a significant, knowing look, and neither of them could contain their laughter. It was the first time in Ria's memory that she and Margaret had shared such a moment of abandon and delight. That it should come at Tenley's expense seemed rather more right than wrong.

  Hours and hours had passed since then, every one of them devolving into the next with excruciating slowness. Dinner filled up some of the time, and Margaret's recital at the piano following the meal engaged still more. At the end of the day, however, there was nothing for it but to retire to her room with all of her own questions unanswered.

  Ria had prepared for bed by taking a steaming bath in lavender-scented water. When it had seemed that she might fall asleep there, she roused herself enough to be dried and dressed and directed to the comfort of the large four-poster. She was in anticipation of immediate slumber and turned on her side, one hand under her pillow, the other folded into a light fist and nestled close to her lips. She was vaguely aware of the maid extinguishing the lamp and quietly exiting the room, then conscious only of her own soft intake of air.