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A surge of protective fury roared through him. No matter what it took, he was going to keep Thea safe from whatever folly her brother had committed …
‘Richard?’ Thea’s fingers tightened on his arm. ‘It’s Lady Chasewater.’
‘Confound it!’ muttered Richard, as he saw the Dowager Countess of Chasewater heading straight for them. ‘Don’t tell her about it. Not here.’ She turned dazed eyes on him, and he laid his hand on hers, squeezing it in reassurance. ‘Keep your chin up, and we’ll get through.’
Arranging a polite smile on his face, he said, ‘Good evening, Lady Chasewater.’
She gave him a distracted look. ‘Mr Blakehurst.’ She turned at once to Thea.
‘Dear Dorothea! Such a dreadful thing! I must tell you before someone else does!’
Hell and the devil! Surely not?
‘A magistrate, Sir Giles Mason, called on me to ask about poor Nigel,’ said Lady Chasewater in tones calculated to turn heads.
Several heads did turn, but she continued regardless. ‘It seems they are not after all quite happy about the way he died. There has been some suggestion that it might have been murder!’
Richard swore under his breath. No one nearby was making even a pretence of not listening, as her ladyship went on, ‘Can you imagine it? Who could possibly have wanted to kill my poor boy? Why! ‘Tis unthinkable!’
Not any more it wasn’t. The blasted female had just made sure the entire ton would be thinking about it by breakfast time.
Thea’s chin lifted. ‘Yes, a very dreadful thing.’
‘And so distressing for you, my dear!’ went on Lady Chasewater, apparently oblivious to the fact that by now at least fifty people had drawn closer the better to hear what she was saying.
Richard gritted his teeth. The cat had its head out of the bag now—how the hell could he shut her up before the whole beast escaped? ‘Ma’am, perhaps you would like to speak to Miss Winslow a little more privately? You might—’
‘And I understand he plans to call on you, my dearest Dorothea.’ She caught at Thea’s wrist. ‘Why, whatever would you be able to tell him?’
Shocked murmurs rippled outwards.
In a steady voice, Thea said, ‘Very little, ma’am, I am afraid. Sir Giles called this afternoon.’
‘Oh, my dear! You must let me know if I can be of the least help,’ she told Thea, clutching her wrist convulsively.
Keeping your tongue still would have been a start! It was far too late now. The cat was right out of the bag and scurrying around the room, leaving murmurs and exclamations of astonishment in its wake.
Fury sang in every fibre. Damn the blasted woman! Dimly he could feel pity for her; she had lost her son, and this must be upsetting for her, but didn’t she know better than to reveal the whole affair like this? Had she no discretion? All he could think was that the shock must have addled her wits.
By the time Richard left the assembly, scarcely anything else was being spoken of save the shocking news that Nigel Lallerton had apparently been brutally murdered.
‘Slaughtered, they say, my dear!’
He ignored several offers for snug games of cards and a bottle of brandy and walked home.
Hell’s own broth was brewing around him, and he had no idea how to get out of it. And getting out didn’t matter a damn beside the far more pressing need to protect Thea.
He wasn’t her brother, curse it! Winslow was the one with the right to defend her, but it seemed that Winslow was leaving it to him. Aside from her brother, there was Aberfield … Richard dismissed that idea. Any father who could view Dunhaven as a suitable husband for his daughter was worse than useless. And as for Dunhaven, who had been hovering all evening—Richard’s teeth ground savagely as he trod up the steps of Arnsworth House.
The only way to circumvent Dunhaven’s plans was for Thea to be married, or at the very least, betrothed. To someone else.
Someone like himself …
His latch key missed the keyhole.
He tried again, this time managing to unlock the door. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? A simple solution was often the best, and the simplest way to protect Thea from the attentions of Dunhaven, and her father’s machinations, was to offer for her himself. Immediately. Otherwise, his power was limited. At least if they were betrothed he could deflect much of the inevitable gossip. And there was another thing—once they were betrothed, Thea might confide whatever she knew about Lallerton’s death to him, which would mean he could help her.
Closing the door, he acknowledged that there were other things motivating him. He liked Thea—more than liked. He cared about her. About the woman who had kept that badly carved little bird all these years. About the woman whose eyes spoke sometimes of a pain he could only guess at. And who could wipe him off a chessboard. He smiled as he picked up a candle from the hall table and lit it from a taper. It was the only candle there so Almeria and Thea must be in already. He blew out the taper.
Yes, the more he thought about the idea of marrying Thea, the more right it seemed. Once he could get past the idea of facing Almeria’s smug gloat. No point cutting off your nose to spite your face. There would probably be a certain air of well-fed-cat-picking-its-teeth-with-yellow-feathers about Braybrook too. Not even that had the power to bother him.
Not beside the anticipated delight of Thea as his wife, his bride, his lover … Desire kicked sharply as he trod up the stairs. If they were married, instead of passing her room with every muscle, nerve and sinew straining at the leash, he would be opening the door and stripping quietly, before sliding into bed with her … to hold her, love her gently … His blood burned and he realised to his horror that he had actually stopped at the door.
He took a shuddering breath. Tomorrow morning he was going to propose to Thea Winslow. It might be the only way to retain his sanity.
Chapter Seven
Thea stared blindly at her teacup. A piece of toast, reduced to crumbs on her bread-and-butter plate, bore mute testament to her lack of appetite. A sleepless night had left her with a crashing headache, and a churning stomach. The Heathcote assembly had turned into a nightmare with everyone speculating on the possible truth behind Nigel Lallerton’s death.
Perhaps she had been mad to admit that Sir Giles had called, but once Lady Chasewater had made the suggestion, there had seemed little point hiding anything. Aching pity stirred inside her. How hard this must be for the woman … she had adored Nigel …
‘Miss?’
The footman, James, stood just inside the door of the breakfast parlour, holding a silver salver. ‘Yes, James?’
‘A note for you, miss. It’s just been delivered.’
She set her teacup down carefully, with only the slightest of rattles. ‘A … a note?’ No. It couldn’t be. Foolish to think it might be another note like the one the other day … what purpose could such notes possibly serve now? All the damage had been well and truly done.
‘Thank you, James.’
He brought her the note and she took it, seeing instantly that it was addressed to her in the same scrawl as the last one. A chill slid through her. ‘That will be all, James.’ Her own voice, calm, oddly distant.
‘Yes, miss.’
She put the note by her plate, refusing to look at it until the door closed. Shivering now, she picked up her cup of tea and sipped, savouring it. There was more tea in the pot, and she poured herself another cup, adding milk with careful precision.
The note sat there. Unavoidable. She didn’t have to read it. There was a fire in the grate. She could drop it in there unread. That would be the sensible thing to do. Swiftly she rose, picked up the note and hurried over to the fireplace.
She stared at the dancing flames. Drop it in. That’s all you have to do. Only she couldn’t. After yesterday, and last night … what if the note contained a threat? A demand. Something that ought to be dealt with. She shivered—what if—?
With shaking fingers she broke the seal—first she would read it, just in case. Then she would burn it … Fumbling with cold, she unfolded the letter.
Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved, Slut?
The room spun around her in sickening swoops as she crushed the note. Dear God … bile rising in her throat, she bent down and placed the crumpled note on the fire. It hung there for a moment and then the edges blackened, slowly at first, and then in a consuming rush as the flames fed hungrily. It was gone in less than a minute, paper and ink reduced to ashes.
Only, it wasn’t gone. Not really. Because she had been fool enough to read it. She could not consign knowledge to the flames and the words remained, branded on her soul—but what could they possibly mean? The phrasing—Did they tell you …? What else should they have told her? Unless … unless they had lied.
She dragged in a breath, shutting her eyes as she fought for control.
The door opened.
‘Thea?’
She straightened at once and her breath caught. Richard had come in, dressed for riding, dark eyes fixed on her. Dear God … if he had read this note! Her glance flickered to the fire, half-expecting to see the accusation writhing in the flames.
‘Good … good morning, Richard.’
He frowned at her as he came into the parlour. ‘Did you sleep at all? You should still be abed. Are you all right?’
She forced a smile into place. ‘I was … just a little cold,’ she lied. Change the subject, quickly. ‘Have you been riding?’
He sat down at the table. ‘Yes. Thea—about last night—’
‘You must be hungry then.’ She rushed on. ‘Shall I ring for coffee? Were you up very early?’ Heavens! She was babbling like an idiot in her attempt to sound vaguely normal.
‘Thank you, but Myles knows I’m in. He’ll bring me some coffee, and I breakfasted before riding.’ He looked across at her. ‘Thea, don’t pretend with me. About last night—we need to talk. Privately.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a funny little leap. She squashed it back into place and ordered her thoughts. Very carefully she said, ‘Is that wise, Richard?’
His gaze narrowed, and she flushed, remembering a comment of Diana’s about how peculiar it was to see Richard in town at all, let alone attending so many parties. Diana seemed perfectly certain that there would be an announcement at any moment—and that wagers had been laid that, finally, Lady Arnsworth would succeed in her dearest ambition.
‘After all, you can’t wish to … raise expectations, and … and then—’
His brows lifted. ‘Expectations?’
She could not quite identify the undercurrent in his voice.
‘Am I raising your expectations, Thea?’
He didn’t sound concerned, but then he was always in control of his thoughts and feelings.
‘Not mine!’ she clarified. ‘Society’s expectations.’
What Richard said about society had a certain eloquence to it.
‘You’re my friend, Thea,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s expectations,’ he added, still with that odd, intent look. ‘Yours would be a different matter.’
A friend. Her heart, foolish organ, glowed. Should she tell him about this note? Not because she wanted him to do something about it, but simply to tell someone. So that she did not feel quite so alone.
No. She couldn’t. She could hear the conversation now.
Another note? What did this one say?
Oh, nothing much. Just … it was just nasty.
Nasty, how?
No, she couldn’t tell him what it had said. The other one had looked like general spitefulness. This one was more directly aimed. He would want an explanation. Yet another explanation she couldn’t give.
‘Thea? Thea! Are you all right?’
To her horror she realised that he had been speaking to her, trying to gain her attention.
She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I … I was wool-gathering.’
‘With a vengeance,’ he agreed.
She pinned a bright smile in place. ‘What did you wish to say?’
He didn’t look at all convinced, but said, ‘I planned to drive out towards Richmond this morning in the curricle, if you would care to join me. We do need to talk.’
‘Driving … but …’ Her voice died in her throat and the walls of the present dissolved, memory flooding through the breach. Another offer to drive out on a sunny day … another curricle … shame, embarrassment, and terror stretched out their tentacles, pulling her back in time …
Come, Thea, you cannot possibly believe that I mean you the least harm. Your mama is perfectly happy for me to drive you out. She wishes you to entertain me … At least you might tell me the reason for your change of mind …
‘Thea? Thea? Is something wrong?’
His words made no sense. He had never asked before if anything was wrong. She tasted fear, sour in her mouth, and felt her knees buckle.
‘Thea!’
Strong hands gripped her, lifting her, and then she felt herself being lowered, helpless—
‘It’s all right, Thea. Here—just lie still.’
Just lie still, you stupid girl!
No! Not this time. She wouldn’t submit. Even as she felt the sofa beneath her, she squirmed, struggling wildly, clawing, striking out in panic.
The blackness cleared, dissolving to reveal an elegantly appointed breakfast parlour, and, instead of him, Richard Blakehurst bending over her, his cravat askew and a livid red mark on his left cheek.
Horror stabbed her.
‘I … I—’ The words dried up in her throat. There was nothing she could say in answer to the question in his shocked dark eyes. Cold flooded her from the flash of memory, and the disbelief on his face. What had she done?
Very slowly he straightened up.
‘You will perhaps be more comfortable if I take my coffee in the back parlour, Thea.’
Thea sank back on the sofa, shivering. But not from the resurgence of nightmare and fear. Horror seeped through her at what she had seen in his face.
What had she done? She had insulted one of the most honourable men in London in the worst possible manner.
Richard Blakehurst was the last man on earth who would take advantage of a woman. Anywhere. Let alone in his godmother’s breakfast parlour. She owed him an apology at the very least. And what could she say if he demanded an explanation?
I didn’t see you. I saw him. Felt his hands on me. Heard his voice, telling me to lie still … his weight crushing the breath out of me. His strength …
