From London with Love Read online

  “Are you going to stare at me all evening? Perhaps you’ve lost your manners as well as your mind,” she said tartly. “I’m aware this gown looks ghastly on me but, thanks to you, I have nothing else to wear, given that my trousseau remains in Town. And I do not.”

  “You do not look ghastly.” She looked lush and womanly. Although her acerbic tone did temper his admiration somewhat. “You look quite fetching,” he said, meaning it.

  She looked skyward, not bothering to hide her obvious skepticism. “Yes, of course, I’m a diamond of the first water.”

  He regarded her with some surprise. Titania was either blind or modest to a fault but, in truth, he did not think she was either. Not knowing how to respond, he said instead, “Why don’t we go straight into supper?”

  He escorted her into the modest dining room accoutered with simple pine furniture, where a still-sulking Trudy served whiting, vegetables, bread, and fruit.

  “Thank you, Trudy,” he said, trying to appease her. “The fish looks excellent.” She didn’t respond, but the slight flush in her ruddy cheeks suggested he might have coaxed her out of her sour mood. “You may leave us now. We’ll serve ourselves.”

  Trudy cast a dark look at Emilia before shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Emilia sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest in a manner that put Sparrow on alert.

  “What happened to the man at Portman Square?” Her remarkable eyes, the purest green he could ever recall seeing, glistened in the candlelight, reminding him of the Białowieża Forest in Poland, where he’d once spent several days tracking an adversary. When had her eyes become so vibrant? Titania had certainly blossomed into a formidable beauty in the five years since he’d cried off from their wedding. “Who was he?”

  He poured her some wine. “I’m not sure.” That much was true. The man whose neck he’d been obliged to snap near Portman Square had been a stranger. But he didn’t doubt the churl had been in Graves’s employ. “I believe, however, that he worked for a very dangerous man.” He raised his glass. “To your health.”

  She followed suit and sipped her wine. “Which you believe is at risk.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My health. You believe it is in peril. Why?” She put down her glass. “Maybe they are after you.”

  “No.” He spooned a generous helping of whiting onto her plate. “Please eat. You’ve had nothing since this morning.”

  To his surprise, she did not argue, and even allowed him to add boiled potatoes and an assortment of berries to her plate. Satisfaction rifled through him when she attacked her whiting with vigor. The last thing he needed to contend with was a swooning miss determined to starve herself in protest.

  He sampled the fish, enjoying its mild flavor and firm texture. Trudy truly was an outstanding cook.

  Emilia picked up a berry and bit into it. “Why are you so certain these people, whoever they are, mean to do me harm?” The berry left a stain of crimson juice on her lower lip. He tried not to stare at the lushness of her mouth, but it did no good. His randy prick still stirred.

  He cursed inwardly. What the devil was wrong with him? This was sweet young Emilia St. George, his longtime neighbor’s daughter, who needed to be protected, not lusted after. True, they’d once been betrothed, but there’d been neither a strong physical attraction nor a deep emotional attachment between them. The match had been arranged years earlier by their parents.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  He forced himself to focus on her question. “Why do I think they mean to do you harm? I recognized a man outside the church, someone I became acquainted with in Paris. To be frank, he is involved in a nasty business.”

  “What sort of business?” Her pink tongue darted out to swipe away the berry stain on her lip. “And what has that to do with me?”

  “I know the way this man operates.” He stretched his neck from side to side. There was no excuse for the heat rushing to the unruly tool between his thighs. He’d just had a woman, two of them in fact, the night before last at a raucous house party hosted by the Duke of Sunderford, one of his newer acquaintances. “His name is Graves and I observed him observing you.” He took a breath. “I believe you to be his next target.”

  “What exactly is your Mr. Graves’s business?” She regarded him expectantly with wide innocent eyes.

  He wanted to protect her, to shield her from the ugliness of his old world, but there was nothing to be done for it. He could not risk having her run off again. She needed to know the truth. “He is a professional killer.”

  “I see.” She pressed her lips inward, and he realized she was trying not to laugh.

  “This is no laughing matter,” he snapped, losing patience with her reluctance to give this dire situation the serious consideration it required. “I assure you.”

  She shook her head, the candlelight catching the gleam in her flaming hair. “It all sounds preposterous.”

  “That cur at Portman Square intended to kill you,” he said more sharply than he intended. “He admitted as much before”—before he’d sent him to kingdom come, but she didn’t need to know that—“before the watch came for him.”

  “It makes no sense.” Her expression sobered a little, but he could see she remained skeptical. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “You are an heiress with a great fortune. Unfortunately, there are people who would benefit from your demise.” Propping his elbow on the table, he cupped his chin. “What about this future husband of yours?”

  “Edmund?” she said skeptically. “He is wealthy in his own right. Besides, the marriage would have to be…consummated”—she blushed as she said the word and then rushed over it—“before he could access any of my funds. My fortune would be forever out of his grasp if I were to expire before we marry.”

  “As an heiress, you come with a sizable dowry, which I presume has already been delivered to Worsely?”

  “It was to be sent this morning,” she conceded, before adding, “but that’s insignificant when compared to what he’ll receive once we’re wed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father intends to give us twenty-five percent of my inheritance after the wedding.”

  “Twenty-five percent?” He whistled low. Emilia was the only child of Thomas St. George, the obscenely wealthy third son of a baron who’d made his money through savvy investments in the new agricultural and industrial technologies. “That’s a small fortune.”

  “Exactly. My father has signed all of the required documentation. Twenty-five percent of my inheritance portion will transfer to Edmund’s accounts first thing on the morrow.” She shot him a sour look. “Or at least it was supposed to, before you kidnapped me at the altar.”

  He gritted his teeth. “It was for your own good.” She acted as if he made a habit of breaking up weddings for sport.

  “So you see,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “if it was money he was after, Edmund would be a fool to do away with me before the transfer of my inheritance is complete.”

  “And Worsely is no fool.” He mulled over her words, reluctantly seeing the validity of her reasoning. He was not well acquainted with Edmund Worsely, although he had come into contact with him on occasion in Paris, where the man served at the embassy. Worsely struck him as a puffed-up fool concerned primarily with his own consequence. Still, he could not envision the man as a murderer, but neither could he completely discount him as a suspect.

  “No, Edmund is not a fool,” she said. “I would hardly consent to marrying a simpleton.”

  “Very well.” He popped a berry in his mouth and chewed the sweet-tart fruit. “Let us put your betrothed husband aside. Who inherits if you perish before marriage?”

  “I suppose it would be Nick, the son of my father’s cousin.”

  His interest piqued, Sparrow leaned forward. “And what do you know of him?”

  She shrugged. “In truth, very
little these days. He’s a war hero and something of a recluse. His family hails from Devonshire.”

  “Devonshire? Perhaps I’m acquainted with his family. What is his surname?”

  “Ware. Dominick Ware.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Why would you be acquainted with him?”

  “My principal estate is in Devonshire.” Although it wasn’t much of an estate. His predecessor had sold practically anything of value that wasn’t entailed. Sparrow had been forced to give up his work in order to take possession of a crumbling manor house and beleaguered tenants struggling to put food on their tables and fires in their hearths.

  “Your estate?” Confusion lit her face. “But your family home is in Berkshire next to ours.”

  His stomach hardened. He couldn’t fathom how she hadn’t heard of the unspeakable tragedy that had elevated him to the title he’d neither desired nor aspired to. “The late Viscount Vale, distant cousin to my father, was killed in a boating accident along with his heir and only grandson.”

  She stared at him. “When the servants referred to you as my lord, I thought they were mistaken.”

  “Would that it was a mistake.” He took a healthy gulp of wine. “But somehow I am now Vale.”

  She inhaled her shock. “You’re a viscount.”

  “At your service.”

  Her intelligent gaze assessed him. “But you are not pleased.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Most men in your situation would celebrate their good fortune.”

  “I cannot fathom rejoicing in the deaths of three of my kinsmen, including a child who hadn’t yet reached his sixth year,” he said stridently. “My so-called elevation comes at a terrible expense.” It also meant the loss of an occupation at which he’d excelled, and in which he’d thrived, while effecting some positive change in the world. Now he was saddled with no occupation, a useless title, and a dilapidated estate teetering on the edge of ruin.

  “Does this mean you are back from Paris for good?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately. I have had to relinquish my work for the Home Office.” He refilled his empty glass. “Back to this cousin of yours. You say you are not well acquainted with him?”

  “Dominick? I was once.” Sadness filled her expressive face. “They used to come quite often when his parents were alive, but then they died so horribly.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They were killed when Nick was five-and-ten.” She shuddered. “But Father would never tell me how it happened. It must have been quite terrible because no one would ever speak of it.”

  “What do you know about his life now?”

  “Very little, honestly. Nick changed after his parents died. We rarely saw him. Then he went to join the fight on the Continent, and we had almost no contact after that.”

  “I suppose a visit to Devonshire might be in order.”

  “Whatever for?” Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, comprehension set in. “To visit Nick? I doubt my cousin, or anyone else for that matter, is trying to kill me. In any case, you wouldn’t need to go all the way to Devonshire. Nick is in London. He came for the wedding.”

  “That doesn’t sound very reclusive.”

  “He came at my father’s request. Even so, Papa was surprised to see him.”

  Sparrow wasn’t. If Ware knew he was about to suddenly, and very conveniently, become St. George’s heir, it would behoove him to dance attendance on the man. “So Ware is in London.” He brushed his fingers back and forth under his chin as he contemplated the possibilities. “That gives him both motive and opportunity.”

  She stifled a yawn. “That doesn’t make him a killer.”

  He came to his feet. “Let’s leave off for now, shall we?” He could well imagine how fatigued and emotionally spent she must feel. “It has been a long day. We’ll take it up again tomorrow.”

  In the meantime, he had two messages to send: one to his former colleagues at the Home Office to gain more intelligence on Dominick Ware, and the other to Emilia’s father in London to assure him of his daughter’s safety and well-being.

  —

  Although she was beyond exhausted, Emilia could not sleep. The events of the day kept cycling through her mind: Sparrow stealing her away from the church; the possibility that someone wanted to do away with her; learning Sparrow, the wild boy to whom she was once betrothed, was now a viscount. She flopped over onto her back, listening to the lulling murmur of the sea beyond the open window, and inhaled deeply. The salty ocean air was fresh and clean, so unlike London’s.

  What were her parents thinking? What about Edmund? Had they mounted a search for her? She sat up in the bed. Mama and Papa would be sick with worry. Why hadn’t she thought of their distress before now? She must get word to them. She stilled, listening for sounds in the household. Above the push and pull of the waves outside her window, she could hear the buzz of voices below. Sparrow was still awake. Surely he would not be averse to reassuring her parents that she was well.

  Rising, she pulled on the coarse navy dress Trudy had procured for her. When she came down the stairs, she saw light coming from the study and went toward it. From the darkness of the hallway, she saw him sitting at the desk with a quill in his hand, writing a note on the oak surface.

  He was not alone.

  The housekeeper, Trudy, leaned over him, her jaunty breasts at level with his face. It was impertinent for a servant to crowd her master in that manner, but the way Sparrow’s gaze momentarily dipped to the deep V in her dress suggested he didn’t mind overmuch.

  “Not this evening, Trudy.” He went back to his letter, the quill scratching across the foolscap as he wrote. “We have a guest. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “I can be quiet.” Her tone was low, inviting. “Like a regular mouse.”

  “Past experience suggests otherwise.” His gaze flickered up briefly, tolerant amusement gleaming there, before his attention went back to whatever it was he was writing. He looked rougher, more dangerous somehow than the gentleman who’d attended her at supper. Perhaps it was the dark beard stubble that had burgeoned along his jawline since his morning shave. And his hair, which had been neatly combed when he’d escorted her into the dining room, was disheveled now, as though he’d run his hands through it, making him look rakishly handsome.

  Trudy trailed a hand down the swell of her pert breasts. “I can’t help it if you make a woman scream with pleasure.”

  Emilia sucked in a shocked breath at the obvious implication. Sparrow and his housekeeper were clearly on…intimate terms. The rumors were true then. She’d heard whispers that Sparrow had become an unrepentant libertine.

  “I can suck you, if you wants.” Trudy’s hand dropped to Sparrow’s lap, cupping the bulge between his legs. “You likes it when I do that.”

  “Not tonight.” He eased her hand away, not looking up from his writing.

  To Emilia’s shock, Trudy dropped to her knees and began pulling at the placket of his trousers. “Just real quicklike.”

  “Leave off.” His tone became razor sharp, losing all affability. He caught her hand to cease the illicit exploration. “As I said, that will be all.” Taking a firm hold of her elbow, he helped Trudy to her feet. “Good evening.”

  She straightened, a pout on her plain face. “Is she to yer taste? The ginger upstairs? I suppose it’ll be her in yer bed tonight instead of me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a lady and an innocent.” He sanded the finished letter and folded it. “Before you retire, go and get Jed. I need him to carry these messages to London.”

  “Ginger don’t seem like your type.”

  “She isn’t, I assure you.” He sealed two missives with his signet ring. “Now run along and call for Jed. These are urgent and cannot wait until morning.”

  Emilia’s eyes stung. Of course she wasn’t the sort of woman to attract a man like Sparrow. But to hear him say it aloud, in the presence of a servant, as if she didn’t warrant the least c
onsideration, pricked her pride and picked at the old wound she’d tried to close five years ago. She turned to go, anxious to find her bed and to be away from this place, and from Sparrow, as soon as she was able. Tomorrow she would plan her escape.

  The stair squeaked when she set a foot on it. She froze, her cheeks burning, mortified at the thought of being discovered eavesdropping on a conversation between Sparrow and his doxy.

  “Who goes there?” Sparrow’s voice sounded from the study. “Jed, is that you?”

  She didn’t wait to be discovered, dashing up the stairs as quickly and quietly as her tender ankle would allow, she raced to her chamber and gently closed the door behind her.

  Then she fell back against it, her heart swelling with hurt and embarrassment, and let the tears fall; the day’s pent-up emotion overflowed, cascading out of her.

  She reached for a handkerchief to blow her nose, a noisy trumpeting affair that would leave Mama aghast were she present to hear it. Emilia swiped away her tears in strident, jerky motions, assuring herself that this messy show of emotion wasn’t for Sparrow. It was most definitely for Edmund, her intended, the man who actually wanted to marry her.

  Today was meant to be their wedding day, and Sparrow had ruined everything. She still couldn’t fathom someone trying to kill her. It was too far outside anything she could imagine for a person who’d lived so quietly and uneventfully in the country up until now.

  She sniffed. Hamilton Sparrow was an unpleasant, ill-advised, best-forgotten piece of her past. She would never shed another tear for him. Never.

  Not as long as she lived.

  Chapter 3

  “There you are.”

  The following morning, Emilia was perched on a boulder busily sketching when Sparrow’s low-timbred voice sounded behind her.

  “For a moment there, I’d thought you’d made good on your pledge to run off.”

  She’d contemplated bolting. Especially after what she’d overheard last evening. But once she caught sight of the ruins in all of their crumbling splendor, magnificently bathed in the golden dawn light, she just had to try and capture the scene. “That was my intention until I saw the way the castle looks in the morning.”