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Blinking, she searched the room once again, and her hours of vigilance were rewarded when she caught a glimpse of the viscount. He moved through the crowd, greeting his favorites among the middle-aged widows, before finally settling down with a serving of the odoriferous water for which Bath was famous.
“Lord Whalsey! Good afternoon!” Georgiana said, stepping forward boldly. They had been introduced briefly a few days before, but she saw no recognition in his eyes, only a spark of interest as they focused eagerly on her bosom. Hiding her annoyance, Georgiana forced a smile. “I did not see you leave the ball last night. Did you depart early?”
The inquiry, innocent though it was, made Whalsey start, and his gaze moved up to her face in what could only be described as a most anxious manner. Georgiana felt a surge of triumph rush through her, though she held it firmly in check. “And what of the fellow who was with you? Mr. Cheever, wasn’t it?”
Whalsey, his mouth working silently, looked guilty as sin, and Georgiana wondered just how swiftly she could bring him to justice. “Look here, Miss…Miss…”
“Bellewether,” Georgiana answered with a confident smile. “You two seemed to be discussing something frightfully important, and I was wondering if—”
He cut her off with a choked sound, his face growing red and mottled. “I hardly think—”
“Did you accomplish all that you intended?”
With an alarmed expression, Whalsey rose to his feet. So eager was he to escape her probing that his hand swung from his side, knocking over the cup and sending the contents splashing up the front of Georgiana’s muslin gown. Shocked by the dash of hot water, she stepped back only to come up against a stand used by the orchestra.
For a brief moment, Georgiana teetered there before losing her balance entirely and crashing backward, taking the support with her. It struck the violinist, who fell into one of his fellows, and before long the musicians were all collapsing into each other like a set of dominoes. After a series of loud, wailing screeches that accompanied their downfall, the music came to an abrupt halt and silence descended as every head in the Pump Room turned toward Georgiana.
Her skirts entangled with the stand and one arm stuck through the bow of the violinist, Georgiana watched dejectedly as Lord Whalsey made a hasty escape. Blowing out a breath to dislodge the curl that had fallen across her face, she blinked when a gloved hand appeared before her. Glancing upward, she felt an odd sense of disorientation at the sight of Ashdowne, tall and handsome and collected, leaning over her.
“You, Miss Bellewether, are dangerous,” he said with a wary scowl. Nonetheless, he pulled her to her feet just as easily as he had the other night, and one look from him had the musicians rising without complaint to continue their concert. As if by decree, the other visitors turned back to their conversations, and Georgiana could only gape in wonder at a man who could wield such heady influence.
“Thank you. Again,” Georgiana mumbled as he led her away from the orchestra. “You have come to my rescue more than once.”
“I admit, Miss Bellewether, that you appear to have a penchant for mishaps, and I count it my ill fortune to be in the vicinity,” he noted with a wry grimace.
Was that an insult? Georgiana wondered as she struggled to discreetly pull the wet material of her bodice away from her chest. Although dampened muslin was rumored to be all the rage among the more daring London ladies, she had no desire to display her body so unerringly beneath the clinging fabric.
From somewhere, Ashdowne produced a shawl, which he dropped over her shoulders, but not before his blue gaze traveled the length of the front of her in a rather stimulating perusal that caused the tips of her breasts to stiffen in response. Curious. Plenty of other men had stared at her bosom without causing such a reaction, Georgiana thought, wrapping the shawl around her tightly.
It was a measure of her own flustered state that she did not note where Ashdowne had obtained the garment or that she did not find his rather intimate study annoying. Indeed, she knew a strange sort of thrill to have attracted his attention in that manner, which was only fair considering that the very sight of him usually reduced her to an unparalleled state of idiocy.
Ashdowne, however, looked none the worse for his brief display of interest. His expression was that of a man wearied beyond endurance, and Georgiana began feeling like a bug again. If only she could actually sprout wings and fly away…
“I suspect these disasters are all part and parcel of your unusual…pursuits, but I’m beginning to think that you need someone to keep you out of mischief,” he said.
Georgiana blinked. Surely a marquis would not bother himself to complain to her father about her? Nor, as far as she knew, were there any laws against accidents such as the one that had just taken place.
What could the man possibly do to her? Georgiana wondered. But then he smiled, his elegant lips moving into a positively decadent curve that well answered her question. Anything he wants, she thought with the last of her wits.
“And since I seem to be the one most affected by your antics, perhaps I should apply for that position,” he said, stunning her speechless.
Chapter Three
Johnathon Everett Saxton, fifth Marquis of Ashdowne, lifted one dark brow in surprise at the expression on his companion’s face. Over the years, he had received a wide variety of looks from the ladies, but never had one eyed him with anything bordering on alarm. As usual, Miss Georgiana Bellewether’s reaction was far from ordinary.
Perhaps his offer to act as a sort of keeper for the errant young woman was none too flattering, but her obvious dismay was not exactly what he had anticipated. The Saxon good looks and a certain rakish charm had assured Ashdowne of more than his share of the fair sex, while now, as marquis, he received far too much attention for his taste. Somehow the thought of being sought only for his title put a damper on his previous enthusiasm.
But Miss Bellewether could hardly be accused of chasing after his name, Ashdowne mused. Although the chit ought to be grateful for his attention, she appeared flustered, irritated and nearly panicked, as if she found him objectionable in some way. Apparently it was his misfortune that the only woman who was not inclined to be his marchioness was some kind of lunatic. A dangerous lunatic, he qualified grimly.
He had not suspected as much at first. Upon sighting her at Lady Culpepper’s ball, Ashdowne had been momentarily taken with the young lady, as would any normal male, for Georgiana Bellewether had a body that might cause a lesser man to drool into his neck cloth. With those lush curves, that mop of blond curls and the delicate oval face of an angel, she would have been toasted as a diamond of the first water in London, with offers flying at her head, despite her simple background. Or she could have reigned over the demimonde as the most sought after of cyprians.
Of course, all that success was dependant upon her silence—and her stillness, Ashdowne thought. Unfortunately, once Georgiana Bellewether began moving, all hell was inclined to break loose, for she was probably the clumsiest creature in all of Christendom. A veritable accident in the making, she had managed to knock him to the floor last night, an ignominious experience that still stung. Luckily the tumble hadn’t hurt anything except his pride, or else the evening might have gone awry in more ways than one.
But that episode was the least of it. Since then, she had hit him with the world’s heaviest reticule and single-handedly brought down an entire orchestra. Ashdowne would never view the words strike up the band in quite the same light again.
Not only was she disaster prone, but the young woman fancied herself some sort of investigator! Although nearly every man at the ball had a theory about the Culpepper robbery, few would claim themselves capable of catching the thief, and certainly no lady would admit interest in such things! Ashdowne didn’t know whether to laugh or ship her off to Bedlam.
And so he did neither, but watched her carefully. Long ago, he had learned to listen to his instincts, which were buzzing and hissing most alarmingly in connection with Miss Bellewether. Perhaps it was the physical danger she represented to anyone fool enough to get close to her, or something else. Ashdowne didn’t know.
He had to admit to some curiosity as to what disaster would next follow in her wake, so possibly his interest amounted to nothing more than the same bizarre fascination that drew people to public hangings. It was only human nature to want to witness calamity, and despite the past stifling year, Ashdowne still called himself human. Whatever the reason, like a man flirting with his own doom, he could not seem to ignore Miss Georgiana Bellewether.
She was diverting, to say the least, and barring the recent trouble with his sister-in-law, Ashdowne could not remember when he had last been so intrigued. It was startling to realize just how mundane his life had become since assuming the title. He had not set out to embrace a life of boredom. Far from it, for he had always held his stolid, conservative brother somewhat in contempt.
It was only after that gentleman had keeled over from apoplexy and the title had been thrust upon him that Ashdowne had realized what a tiresome business it all was. Of course, he could have refused the responsibilities that fell to him, but too many people, from farm tenants to servants staffing the family seat, depended upon him now. And so he had immersed himself in the business of being Ashdowne, and although he didn’t regret it, he felt as if he had been swimming for some time and had just now come up for air. Only to find himself in a fog induced by the young lady at his side.
“This, uh, really isn’t necessary,” Miss Bellewether said. She spoke in a breathless voice, as though she had barely recovered after her misadventure in the Pump Room, and certainly a dousing with Bath water could steal your breath away. Ashdowne knew his had been sadly short after just looking at her, especially when the wet muslin had clung so delightfully to her pert nipples.
He forced his thoughts in a different direction. Gad, he must have been too long without a woman if he could be stirred by this wretched female! “Let me at least see you home,” he said, smoothly stifling his wayward lust. “Where are you staying?”
Ashdowne listened with approval to her mumbled direction, though he knew her address already. He made it his business to learn everything that might impact upon him and his plans, and he had discovered all that he could about the bothersome Miss Bellewether, Lady Culpepper having proven quite helpful in that regard.
The outraged matron had complained at length about the impertinent young woman who invited herself in only to claim that she was going to solve the theft. And all through Lady Culpepper’s shrill diatribe, Ashdowne had struggled with his own incredulity. He knew that common citizens rarely bothered to intervene in a criminal case, let alone a genteel female. What was the chit about?
Ashdowne’s gaze traveled to the lady in question, though he found it difficult to equate the self-proclaimed investigator with those bobbing blond curls. He shook his head in wonder. Obviously Miss Bellewether had recovered herself, for she no longer clung fiercely to the shawl he had borrowed from a matron, but neither did she seem at ease. She was staring straight ahead, her chin lifted, as if prepared to make some pronouncement, and Ashdowne found himself leaning close to hear her next inanity.
“I appreciate your assistance, my lord, but I assure you that I am not singling you out for any sort of…”
“Torture?” Ashdowne suggested wryly.
Although he had not thought her capable of it, the little miss made a face that evidenced some backbone behind that beribboned and beruffled exterior. Tossing her gorgeous curls, Miss Bellewether gave him a mutinous expression that Ashdowne found oddly charming. He must be truly desperate for diversion. “But, tell me, how is the investigation going?” he asked, to deflect her wrath.
Miss Bellewether, however, did not look appeased. “It is going quite well!” she answered, as if daring him to dispute her. “In fact, I am quite certain of the identities of the perpetrators.”
“Perpetrators?” Ashdowne asked. “Then there is more than one?”
To his surprise, she slid him a suspicious glance, and Ashdowne wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Apparently, it was something that nobody else noticed, and the thought sent a shiver up his spine, as if someone were walking on his grave. Unnerved, he rolled his shoulders beneath his fine tailored coat as he awaited her answer.
But when it came, it was as astonishing as anything else she had ever said. “I do not feel at liberty to discuss the case,” she muttered, refusing to look at him.
Uttered with all seriousness, her words stunned Ashdowne from his pose of practiced charm into a startled stare. Who did this mop-haired minx think she was? For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or to strangle her. Unfortunately, they were in full view of several others who were strolling the streets, so the latter was not really an option, and the former would not further his cause.
With an effort, Ashdowne forced himself to swallow the sharp retort that came to his lips while he tried to appear humble. But since the pretense was not part of his usual repertoire, he was not too successful. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your investigation,” he said smoothly. “Quite the contrary, in fact. Perhaps if I were to offer my help to you, as an assistant of sorts, you might feel comfortable speaking more…freely.”
His companion gave him a sharp look that told him she thought he was teasing her, but Ashdowne waited expectantly.
“Oh! I’ve never considered…” she began, only to trail off.
Ashdowne remained impassive as her blue eyes studied him, though it was a trifle difficult when he really wanted to get his hands on her neck—or perhaps lower, where an expanse of luscious white breast peeked above the edge of the shawl.
“That is, I have always worked alone,” she mumbled, gazing down at her toes.
It was a habit she had when with him. Although Ashdowne was not certain what it signified, he did not believe it had anything to do with modesty or deference, much to his regret. “Ah, but perhaps, as a man, I could be of some use,” he suggested.
She glanced up at him with a startled expression, a flush staining her cheeks, and Ashdowne felt an echoing interest in his breeches, along with an absurd sense of triumph. At least the chit was not wholly indifferent to him, if she thought he had offered to accommodate her in a purely personal fashion.
“I meant that I might be able to move easier than yourself amongst the male members of society, in places where you, for all your wherewithal, cannot be expected to go,” Ashdowne qualified. She stared up at him, and for a moment he felt transfixed by those blue eyes. They had stopped before her residence, and he stepped closer, an odd sort of anticipation buzzing in his veins.
It had been a long while since his last intimate encounter. Too long. And the young lady before him was a scrumptious delight for the senses, with her flushed skin and bright hair and mouth made for kissing.
“Georgie!” The call came from inside the house, destroying the moment between them and making Miss Bellewether wince. Was it the nickname that dismayed her, or the long minute they had spent mulling over the possibilities between them? Ashdowne had to admit that he was fairly dismayed himself to be attracted to the disastrous Miss Bellewether, no matter how briefly.
“I will consider your kind offer,” she said in what could be nothing but a dismissal. And then, as if she feared to look upon his face, she turned and fled, hurrying toward the house and leaving him standing outside like a tradesman.
At the sound of the door closing behind her, Ashdowne shook himself. He could not remember the last time he had been so summarily dismissed. Even as a younger son, he had moved in the first circles, his looks and charm and ready money assuring him a place at every party.
Rolling his shoulders, Ashdowne set off down the street. He was certain that more than mere shyness had sent her running inside, and the knowledge left him bemused. Although no angel, he was hardly the type of rake to instill terror in the hearts of young virgins. What, then, drove her away from him?
Ashdowne had an idea, but he planned to find out for sure. His instincts were twitching, and he had no intention of letting Miss Georgiana Bellewether do anything to disrupt his life more than she had already.
Lord Whalsey was nowhere to be seen! Georgiana stifled a groan of frustration. She had joined her family in attending this rout in the hope of cornering him again, but both he and Mr. Cheever were conspicuously absent. What was she to do now? Whalsey might very well be at the Pump Room or a concert, or worse yet, headed to London to sell the necklace!
Georgiana’s shoulders slumped as she wondered what course to take. She could present her observations to the magistrate, but experience told her that gentlemen on the whole were extremely dubious of her talents. Her evidence of an overheard conversation and a guilty reaction probably would not convince him, and then Lord Whalsey would escape with his ill-gotten gains!
Blowing away a curl that had plopped over her forehead, Georgiana leaned back against the balustrade behind the elegant town house. She had pleaded a headache when asked to dance and made her escape onto the balcony that overlooked the tiny garden. Here in the silence, she tried to concentrate on her next course of action, but her thoughts were interrupted all too soon.
“Ah, Miss Bellewether. What new disaster are you contemplating?” The question was spoken in a deep, familiar voice that made Georgiana whirl around in surprise.
Stifling a gasp, she blinked at the shadows near the doors, where she could dimly make out Ashdowne’s tall form. How long had he been there? It was rather frightening to think that, for all her skills, she had not noticed his presence, and Georgiana shivered, for the marquis was not the typical nobleman. He was unlike any man she had ever known.
“I…” Words failed her when he moved into the pale moonlight, all in black again, his handsome features cloaked in mystery. Georgiana’s stomach dipped, her pulse raced and her skin tingled. Lifting her hands to her arms, she rubbed the prickling flesh in hopes of warding away the feeling, but to her dismay, the brisk motion did not help, and Ashdowne stepped closer.
“I hope you’ve been thinking about me,” he said softly, and Georgiana’s eyes widened. She had imagined herself immune to the charms of the male gender, but she was rapidly learning differently with Ashdowne. Like a lingering illness, he disturbed her senses and stayed upon her mind, despite her efforts to banish him, and now, standing before her with a smug smile, he totally flustered her. However, Georgiana wasn’t about to admit as much to the arrogant marquis, so she lifted her chin and frowned at his neck cloth.
He chuckled, apparently amused by her obstinateness. “No? Well, then, I’ve come to convince you.”
He purred, almost like a cat, and Georgiana shivered, for here was no tame tabby. She cleared her throat. “Convince me, of, uh, what?” she asked, still refusing to look at him.
“To take me on…”
Georgiana drew a sharp breath.
“…as your assistant,” he added, and she exhaled slowly. “I’m offering my services to you, to aid in your pursuit of justice. What say you, Miss Bellewether?”
Georgiana hesitated, daring to slant a quick glance at him. At first she had thought Ashdowne much like any other man in respect to her abilities, a scoffer so certain of his own superiority that he would not even listen to her theories. But now he appeared to be in earnest. He no longer wore the aloof expression that made her feel like an insect he would prefer to be rid of—and soon. Instead, his features reflected a rather benign interest.
Georgiana blinked, uncertain, but it appeared that for once in her life, a man was actually seeking her opinion, and not in the idiotic manner of one of her swains, either. Ashdowne’s eyes were not glazed over, but were as alert as ever. They glittered faintly, with a rather predatory gleam that made her stomach pitch. Although he said nothing, Georgiana could almost feel the expectancy shimmering in the air. Or at least that’s what she thought it was, for she felt all tingly and alive, as if poised upon the brink of solving one of her mysteries.
Looking away before she became befuddled, Georgiana clutched the balustrade tightly. She tried not to envision what it would be like to be able to speak to someone—anyone—about her investigation, let alone bask in the glow of this handsome man’s attention. The temptation was great, but did she really want to give away any information to one of her suspects? The very notion made her shiver, though more with excitement than dismay.
Then again, she had just been wondering what to do about Mr. Cheever and Lord Whalsey. In the face of their obvious guilt, it seemed foolish to worry about Ashdowne. No, Georgiana amended as her gaze slid over his dark figure. It would never be foolish to remain cautious around the marquis, for here in the moonlight he exuded danger in a manner that Whalsey and Cheever could not. Georgiana knew, with a heady sense of awareness, that she should not be alone with him. Her mother would be horrified!
And yet that very same menace might be of use to her, for Ashdowne appeared to be eminently capable of anything. He certainly would be able to handle a pair such as Whalsey and Cheever with ease, Georgiana decided. “Perhaps you can be of help to me,” she whispered as she stared out into the night.
“Yes?” The word was little more than an exhalation, yet it managed to harry her senses in ways she had never thought possible.
Annoyed, Georgiana forced herself to concentrate. “You see, I know the identity of the thieves, but I fear they will escape Bath unless something is done to stop them.”
“Ah. And what do you suggest?” Ashdowne said. No laughter. No taunts. There wasn’t even a hint of contempt in his manner, and Georgiana knew a swift sense of relief. Perhaps this assistant business was all to the good, for just sharing her thoughts with another seemed to put her more at ease.
“Well, I’m not entirely certain,” Georgiana admitted. “You see, I don’t really have enough evidence to tender to the magistrate, who probably would not deign to listen anyway.” She paused to consider the injustice of it all before mentioning her only other option. “I’m afraid there is nothing for it but to confront one of the culprits.”
“Miss Bellewether,” Ashdowne said. His intense tone demanded her attention, so Georgiana glanced upward, only to shiver at the way his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “You will not confront a criminal.”
Frowning at what sounded an awful lot like an order, Georgiana nonetheless chose not to argue, for she fully intended to use his objection as a means to her end. “Well, that’s where you could…step in, as it were,” she said.
“You want me to confront the fellow?” Ashdowne lifted one dark brow in speculation.
“Well, that, uh, would be a good job for an assistant, don’t you think?” she asked, smiling tentatively. “And I would be there to do all the talking. I have little doubt that I can wrangle a confession from them, or one of them, at least, because when I spoke to him in the Pump Room, he became quite agitated in a most telling fashion.”
Ashdowne’s lovely lips thinned. “Are you telling me that some brute knocked you down this morning?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking—”
He muttered something she could not quite discern. “You are lucky the fellow did not do more! You cannot go around accosting lawbreakers. You have no idea what that sort of man is capable of, but I’ve seen some in London who would slit your throat for a shilling!”
“Oh, I realize what you are saying, and I heartily agree,” Georgiana replied. “You see, I make it my business to follow the London newspapers quite thoroughly, especially the criminal exploits and the heroic actions of the Bow Street Runners. However, I must assure you that this fellow is not a common cutpurse.”
Ashdowne did not appear mollified. Rather, he seemed to be in quite a taking, his handsome face hard and his mouth grim. To Georgiana’s surprise, he reached for her, and she sucked in a strangled breath as his gloved hands closed over her bare arms. The heat that they generated was alarming, as was the abrupt metamorphosis of her companion. Right before her eyes the Marquis of Ashdowne had changed from smooth and charming to threateningly feral, and Georgiana blinked in amazement.
Held by his hands and his glittering gaze, Georgiana felt caught between dread and titillation, between the heat of his touch and the cold of the shiver that ran up her spine. “Miss Bellewether, you will not confront anyone, no matter how harmless you believe them to be,” he said.
“Well, I—” Georgiana opened her mouth to protest. She had not even formally agreed to take him on as her assistant, yet the arrogant man was trying to tell her what to do. This was not at all what she had imagined, but then Ashdowne was always doing the unexpected. And this moment proved no different, for as Georgiana watched with widening eyes, his head dipped, his features blurred and he kissed her.
Georgiana had been kissed before, of course, but those country lads and military gallants had never aroused in her any enthusiasm for the intimacy. She had always thought it rather distasteful to have someone place his mouth on her own. Until now.
Quite simply, Ashdowne put those other lads to shame. He played upon her lips like a master, his first touch a mere brush, a featherlight caress that left her aching for more. And instead of giving it to her, he grazed the line of her jaw, her cheek, her eyelids and her forehead, where a curl had fallen. Then he pressed against the errant lock, with a deliberate caress that hinted of delights untold.
“You are quite a sumptuous feast, are you not?” Ashdowne whispered against her hair, and then, to her infinite relief, his lips returned to hers, enticing and molding them until Georgiana heard a low moan that shocked her as her own. She lifted her hands to Ashdowne’s embroidered silk waistcoat, drawing in a giddy breath at the heat that emanated from his muscular form. He was so warm and solid and sleek that Georgiana couldn’t help running her palms around to his back, beneath his coat.
As if her explorations encouraged him, Ashdowne touched her with his tongue, and she gasped in surprise only to feel him enter her mouth in a smooth invasion that seemed to affect her entire body in the most peculiar ways. Curious…that something so odd could be so delicious, Georgiana thought, for Ashdowne tasted better than anything. Although a devotee of desserts, Georgiana could liken him to none she had ever had before, his flavor a dark, rich embodiment of…passion?
The thought made its way through her dazed senses, and she realized she should not be clutching the marquis’s person in such a manner. She should not let one of his elegant hands clasp the back of her neck while her head fell back, her mouth opening under his. She should not push so close to him that her breasts were smashed against his elegant waistcoat. And, most of all, she should not be moaning wantonly at the extraordinary bliss to be found in his arms.
Vaguely Georgiana heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the frustrating vacation of Ashdowne’s lips. “Whom do you suspect?” he whispered against her ear, and it took her fogged brain a full minute to comprehend his question. During that time, he stepped away, and Georgiana’s arms fell to her sides, empty and anchorless.
“Suspect?” she asked, her voice a breathless squeak. “Oh, uh, Lord Whalsey and Mr. Cheever.”
“Ah,” he said softly, already moving into the shadows. “I’ll have Whalsey’s house watched.”
