Priceless by Christina Dodd
She incited him: with her teasing, with her warmth so close against him, with the shy gleam of her eyes.
Shy? After such a romp? He peered closer. Every inch of her blushed, every inch he could see…and he could see quite a bit. Chuckling, he caught her neck in the crook of his arm, brought her lips to his, and as the first raindrops splashed to the thirsty earth, he began the long, slow seduction of a woman already seduced.
The evening crept in, gray, damp, sweet with the relief of autumn’s first chill. He lit the candles while she watched, her hand tucked under her cheek. “You have goose bumps. Odd to think that only a few hours ago, it was hot.”
“Very hot,” he agreed.
She turned her head into the pillow just enough to cover one eye. With that minor adjustment, it seemed she could block out the pieces of life that distressed her. Her focus changed. The room looked different. Adam looked different as he paced about. She didn’t want to think tonight, but she had a comment. “You’re restless.”
“I’m thinking.”
Thinking about their impossible situation. Thinking about the things she feared to think of. Thinking about Olivia. She covered her other eye.
“Yesterday,” he continued, “I discovered a lead, a possible break in this conspiracy.”
Conspiracy? His betrothal was a conspiracy?
“Robert Walpole believes there’s something odd occurring in the financial world.”
She suffered about their personal situation, and he thought about Robert Walpole and his stupid financial world. “How can he tell?” she said. “It’s all odd.”
“Something odder,” he clarified. “He heard rumors that puzzled him and asked me to use my connections to find the source.”
A giggle escaped her. What ghastly timing the man had!
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” She struggled to contained herself. “No. What…what have you discovered?”
“That he was both right and wrong. There’s more to this than simple financial manipulation. Someone is seeking power.”
That brought her to a sitting position, away from the safety of her pillow. Power created greed, created danger, and Adam strolled right through the midst of it. “What kind of power?”
“Power over the king, I think. Power in Parliament. There’s a void within the government, and Robert wants to fill it. He’s capable of filling it, is the best man to fill it.” He splashed water on his face and groped for the towel. “If I can find the source of this conspiracy, it would help him immeasurably.”
Timidly she suggested, “You don’t suppose this is related to Henriette’s murder?”
He paused as he wiped his face, half turned to her. “Henriette?”
“Rachelle’s daughter.” She hugged her knees. “If you will recall, I told you she was murdered by someone who said he would kill a man by dropping a stock on him.”
“No, I don’t recall.”
Before he could remember the night when she’d told him, she said, “Yes, well, could this be part of your conspiracy?”
“Kill a man by dropping a stock on him,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting phrasing.”
“Henriette was French.” She watched him, yet she wouldn’t let her fondness for his long limbs and lean muscles distract her. “I thought Walpole was at his home in the country. When did he ask you to help him?”
“Months ago. The end of April.”
“April? April, and you have discovered nothing?”
A passing glance from his eyes scorched her. “Robert wanted me to deal with it personally, and my private life intruded for too long.”
She remembered how she’d distracted him, was flattered she’d distracted him.
Watching her in the mirror, he dabbed at his chin. “Well might you smile. I’ve danced to your tune and neglected my duty to my country.”
Ignoring the conscience that spoke sharply, she lifted her hair and arranged it artfully over her chest. “I would never ask you to neglect your duty to England.”
He lifted a light, shone it on her silver tresses. “Of course not.”
A delicious thrill ran up her spine as he started toward her, candle in hand.
Placing the light on the nightstand, he accused, “You’re to blame. To blame that I neglect my duty, and to blame that I remember it.” He stretched, tensing the muscles of his arms, his chest, his stomach. Groaning, he flexed his thighs, his calves, cupping the old injury as if to protect it. “With quite irrational confidence, I know I will solve this mystery. You make me strong.”
The ardent tribute left her without a reply.
He seemed to expect none. The supple line of her back attracted him, and he stroked up its length with the care of a man caressing a kitten.
Purring, she savored the ripple of vitality that stole through her veins. “Come to bed, I’ll warm you.” She brushed her palm up the side of his body, delighted as more goose bumps blossomed.
He shifted, pressing one knee into the mattress to ease the weight on his leg. “I suspect you of ulterior motives.”
Dropping her gaze to his thigh, she leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his old scar. “Did it hurt?”
“Like fire.” Running his finger along the curve of her shoulder, he said, “That wormhole of a surgeon wanted to amputate.”
Wincing, she shook her head.
“No, I wouldn’t let him, but there is still a bit of the ship’s deck inside. It troubles me occasionally.”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” she retorted. “Would you like me to kiss it better?”
“I’d like to rest.” At his emphatic statement, her lower lip drooped and she peered at him with the soulful reproach of a street singer who’d been cheated. He lifted his knee atop the bed. “What the hell. I can rest afterward.” He sank onto the bed and let her pull the sheet over him, adding, “After you’ve killed me. That is your plan, isn’t it?”
She didn’t deny it. In a husky voice she promised, “Slowly. Very slowly.”
“My sister!” She rolled over and grasped a handful of chest hair, pulling him to wakefulness by the ungentle tug on his roots. “Why are you betrothed to my sister?”
He shoved her hand away. “Ouch, damn it.”
“That’s no answer.” She reached for him again, and he fended her off.
“Do we have to do this first thing in the morning?” Shielding his eyes against the sun which peeked through a brief break in the clouds, he peered around the room.
“Yes.” She flounced into a sitting position and crossed her arms across her chest. “We do.”
“All right.” Wearily he pulled himself up. “We do.” Rubbing his head with his hands, he said, “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re upset.”
“I would never knowingly sleep with my sister’s betrothed,” she answered, flaunting the lofty ideals that had started this attack.
His gray eyes mocked her fury. “You just did.”
“It was a mistake,” she protested.
“Not just one mistake. Several mistakes. Over long hours.” She turned her head away, and he brought it back with his palm on her chin. His words and gaze pierced her soul. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you abandon your principles so readily when you’re hungry and remember them so indignantly when you’re satiated.” Lip stuck out, she refused to answer, and he dropped his hand. “My betrothal to Olivia stands until the day you demand I be released.”
“How can I demand you be released?” She waved her arms in a windmill. “I’m Olivia’s sister.”
His glare seared her before he rolled off the mattress. His feet hit the floor with a thump.
He was displeased with her. All the satisfaction of the night had dissipated. He acted as though the injustice were hers, and somewhere in back of her mind a disturbing thought niggled at her. Was she wrong? True, she’d left him, she’d wanted him to take Olivia in her place, yet somehow, deep inside, she’d never believed he really would. The Adam she’d fir
st met had worn a mask, hard, brittle, cold. But on Midsummer Night, under the moon, he’d convinced her of his sincere passion—for her, for Bronwyn. Had she thrown away a love to last a lifetime, all for foolish pride?
At the mirror, he lifted his brush and stroked it through his hair, easing the wildness into some semblance of decorum and tying it back. “Does that look civilized?” he asked, making conversation, saying nothing.
She tugged the sheet up over her shoulders. The chill in the room was not solely from the air. “Not in the least. You look like a seaman with a thin facade of polish.”
He attempted a simper, but his reflection didn’t lie. He couldn’t accomplish it, and he scowled instead.
“Where are you going?” she asked. Are you coming back? she meant, but she didn’t dare ask.
“To Change Alley.”
With the greatest delicacy she inquired, “To find out the truth about this conspiracy?”
“Yes.”
“You say Walpole spoke to you about this in April? Well, this is September twentieth. Perhaps there’s nothing to discover.”
He turned from stranger to enemy as she blinked. His sharp white teeth snapped as he snarled, “If there were nothing to discover, why would fake stock be circulating, passed by one who styles himself as Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson?” He stalked toward her. “Has it occurred to you that the board of directors of the South Sea Company perpetrated one of the biggest frauds ever to take place in the history of mankind? They have stolen millions of pounds from unsuspecting, foolish people, ruined good lives and bad, and are taking the English government to the brink of chaos.”
She considered. “But I don’t believe in conspiracy by committee.”
If he hadn’t been so angry with her, he might have smiled. “You are a very intelligent woman about finance. In matters of the heart, you’re incredibly stupid.” As she gaped, he adjusted the large rings that adorned his fingers. “I do not believe in conspiracy by committee, either. If I were to point at one man, I would say John Blunt, newly created baron, is the culprit.”
“But what is the conspiracy?”
Rubbing his forehead, he said, “I don’t know. Everything so stinks of dishonesty in Change Alley, it’s hard to distinguish a conspiracy from a plot.”
“Then maybe it’s nothing serious, not worth your attention.”
He dropped his hand. “Haven’t you been listening? If all the rest is not enough for you, then think on this. The South Sea Company has hired cutthroats to ‘encourage’ other companies to leave the market.”
She flinched. Here was the core of her worry, tossed at her like a scrap to a beggar. She couldn’t restrain the anxious query that rose to her lips. “Are you endangering your life?”
Belligerence, confidence, and his mad male relish for a fight merged on his face. “I doubt it.”
Furious with him for his lack of caution, furious with Walpole for asking for such a sacrifice, she snapped, “How dare Robert Walpole ask you to spy for him out of mere friendship?”
“For what other reason would I do it?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
Bouncing up, she said, “I don’t know, but I want you to stop.”
“To stop? Stop, when I am so close? Stop, and break my word to my friend?” His hands closed over her shoulders, and he dragged her close. “Why should I stop? Is it because you think the counterfeit stock will disappear from Change Alley if I do?”
She fastened her hands on his wrists. “Don’t be an ass.”
His fingers dug into her skin as he asked, “Are you worried your relationship to a counterfeiter will ruin your reputation?”
Tugging as his grip tightened, she said, “You’re being stupid. My reputation is already ruined.”
He dropped her like a stinging nettle.
One look at his frozen face assured her she’d said it poorly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He picked up his waistcoat and overcoat.
She flew off the bed and grabbed his arm. “You can’t walk out like this.”
Paying her no attention, he opened the door. She dug in her heels, but her puny weight impressed him not at all. She couldn’t follow him down the stairs, not naked, and she shouted after him, “I meant my moral reputation.” He didn’t turn. “Coward!” was her parting shot.
He flinched, and she gained comfort from that as she dressed for the day. Adam was a reasonable man. Surely he’d think about her words and realize why she sought to dissuade him from pursuing this quest. He’d know she worried about his safety. He couldn’t believe she was so shallow as to care how his reputation affected hers. And, oh God, he wouldn’t take her taunt of “coward” as a challenge to put himself in danger.
Awake before the rest of the household, she crept to her desk. She laid out her manuscript, her sheets of paper. She sharpened her quills, uncorked the bottle of ink—and stared out the window at the mist of rain. Translation held no interest for her today. Instead the quill in her hand scribbled everything Adam had confessed, everything she knew about the South Sea stock. Henriette’s words, too, came to haunt her, and she wrote them at the top of the page. Idly she underscored them. He’s going to kill a man by dropping a stock on him.
What did it mean? She had already concluded the stock could be—must be—the South Sea stock. Adam said he thought the conspiracy revolved around the hunt for power. Someone lusted after power, and they would stop at nothing.
She blinked. Greed, money, an English politician who spoke out against the men who promoted the nefarious South Sea bubble…
Her throat closed, and she lifted her hand to ease the constriction.
Robert Walpole.
Nonsense. She shook her head to clear it. If someone wanted to kill Robert Walpole, why hadn’t they done it sooner? But wait. Walpole was out of town. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?
She rushed out of the room, slumped against the wall. Pressing her cold hands on her hot face, she groaned. Another attack of nausea? Another dizzy spell? The sleepless night, the early rising, the tension of the weeks: they all contributed to her state, but, oh God, she had no time for this now. After groping up the stairs, she rapped at Rachelle’s door. Rachelle’s grouchy voice did not dissuade her; she only rapped harder. “Rachelle, it’s Bronwyn.” She listened, but heard nothing. “Rachelle, I need to know something.”
She knocked again, and finally the door opened. Rachelle’s sleepy glare gave her pause. She took a few deep breaths, but nothing could quench her now. “Forgive me for waking you, but I have to know something.”
Rachelle adjusted her nightcap with a yawn. “Such a rush, child,” she rebuked. “I thought I had cured you of that.”
“Is Robert Walpole out of London?”
“Cherie…” Rachelle groaned.
“It’s important.” Fervor returned a bit of her good health, and Bronwyn insisted, “The gossip in the salon last night…did anyone mention Walpole’s return?”
Plainly irked, Rachelle snapped, “You expect me to pay heed to the comings and goings of one insignificant man?”
“Please?” Bronwyn pleaded. “You remember everything, and Adam says Walpole is going to be prominent.”
“So Walpole says, also. He has convinced quite a few people, it seems.” Rachelle closed her eyes and thought. “Walpole came back to the City yesterday and was visited by his financial advisers.”
“Why?” Bronwyn’s peace of mind hung in the balance.
“They say he has lost money in the South Sea scheme.”
“The devil take the man! How dare he fall into their hands so neatly?” Her indignation left Rachelle with open mouth. Making her decision, she said, “I have to find Adam. I’ll go to Change Alley, find Adam, tell him…I’ll make him listen to me. Will you order a sedan chair?”
“Of course, ma cherie.” Rachelle eyed her skeptically. “I trust you know what you are doing?”
“I haven’t got much choice,” Bronwyn said. “If I don’t tell Adam, W
alpole’s life could be in danger.”
Rachelle never doubted her. “Send a note to Walpole,” she urged.
The fever of alarm touched Bronwyn’s face. “Adam’s life could be in danger.”
“Then you must go. I will get you a sedan chair and rouse Gianni to run beside.” Rachelle gave her a push. “Get your cloak.”
Bronwyn hurried to the entry and with dismay realized her illness had not yet completely fled. The excitement that drove it from her returned it twofold when she hurried or even moved with too much vigor. Cautiously Bronwyn lifted the maroon velvet from its hook and slipped it on. Her purse contained enough to pay the sedan chair and to bribe those with information of Adam’s whereabouts. There were no other preparations she need make—except to banish this creeping affliction and steel herself for the confrontation with the man she loved.
She peered out of the front door and waited. The rain fell with a dreary rhythm. Vapors wafted on dismal breezes. She concentrated on what she would say. “Adam,” she’d say, “I know you think I’m a treacherous hussy.”
No. Perhaps she shouldn’t remind him that he thought her treacherous. How about “Adam, I’ve discovered the key to your mystery.”
In her mind she fantasized the meeting between her and Adam. They would embrace. They would explain, all would be well….
Not even her fertile imagination could see it. More likely Adam would be cold. No one could be colder than he. Even now she could feel the imagined chill of his displeasure.
A large covered carriage rolled up and stopped. Painted shiny white, it sported a gilt trim that made it appear big and embarrassingly gaudy. Fashioned of stained glass, each window pictured classical Italian architecture. In size and shape, the coach resembled a traveling Gypsy lodge, yet this type cruised London streets more and more. The South Sea boom had brought such wealth to the common folk that they bought madly, greedily, looking not to practicality, but to ostentation.
Eagerly she waited for a glimpse of the guest who rode in such a monstrosity and who visited so early in the morning.
No one descended. The coachman leaped down, opened the door, bowed to her without a word.
Shy? After such a romp? He peered closer. Every inch of her blushed, every inch he could see…and he could see quite a bit. Chuckling, he caught her neck in the crook of his arm, brought her lips to his, and as the first raindrops splashed to the thirsty earth, he began the long, slow seduction of a woman already seduced.
The evening crept in, gray, damp, sweet with the relief of autumn’s first chill. He lit the candles while she watched, her hand tucked under her cheek. “You have goose bumps. Odd to think that only a few hours ago, it was hot.”
“Very hot,” he agreed.
She turned her head into the pillow just enough to cover one eye. With that minor adjustment, it seemed she could block out the pieces of life that distressed her. Her focus changed. The room looked different. Adam looked different as he paced about. She didn’t want to think tonight, but she had a comment. “You’re restless.”
“I’m thinking.”
Thinking about their impossible situation. Thinking about the things she feared to think of. Thinking about Olivia. She covered her other eye.
“Yesterday,” he continued, “I discovered a lead, a possible break in this conspiracy.”
Conspiracy? His betrothal was a conspiracy?
“Robert Walpole believes there’s something odd occurring in the financial world.”
She suffered about their personal situation, and he thought about Robert Walpole and his stupid financial world. “How can he tell?” she said. “It’s all odd.”
“Something odder,” he clarified. “He heard rumors that puzzled him and asked me to use my connections to find the source.”
A giggle escaped her. What ghastly timing the man had!
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” She struggled to contained herself. “No. What…what have you discovered?”
“That he was both right and wrong. There’s more to this than simple financial manipulation. Someone is seeking power.”
That brought her to a sitting position, away from the safety of her pillow. Power created greed, created danger, and Adam strolled right through the midst of it. “What kind of power?”
“Power over the king, I think. Power in Parliament. There’s a void within the government, and Robert wants to fill it. He’s capable of filling it, is the best man to fill it.” He splashed water on his face and groped for the towel. “If I can find the source of this conspiracy, it would help him immeasurably.”
Timidly she suggested, “You don’t suppose this is related to Henriette’s murder?”
He paused as he wiped his face, half turned to her. “Henriette?”
“Rachelle’s daughter.” She hugged her knees. “If you will recall, I told you she was murdered by someone who said he would kill a man by dropping a stock on him.”
“No, I don’t recall.”
Before he could remember the night when she’d told him, she said, “Yes, well, could this be part of your conspiracy?”
“Kill a man by dropping a stock on him,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting phrasing.”
“Henriette was French.” She watched him, yet she wouldn’t let her fondness for his long limbs and lean muscles distract her. “I thought Walpole was at his home in the country. When did he ask you to help him?”
“Months ago. The end of April.”
“April? April, and you have discovered nothing?”
A passing glance from his eyes scorched her. “Robert wanted me to deal with it personally, and my private life intruded for too long.”
She remembered how she’d distracted him, was flattered she’d distracted him.
Watching her in the mirror, he dabbed at his chin. “Well might you smile. I’ve danced to your tune and neglected my duty to my country.”
Ignoring the conscience that spoke sharply, she lifted her hair and arranged it artfully over her chest. “I would never ask you to neglect your duty to England.”
He lifted a light, shone it on her silver tresses. “Of course not.”
A delicious thrill ran up her spine as he started toward her, candle in hand.
Placing the light on the nightstand, he accused, “You’re to blame. To blame that I neglect my duty, and to blame that I remember it.” He stretched, tensing the muscles of his arms, his chest, his stomach. Groaning, he flexed his thighs, his calves, cupping the old injury as if to protect it. “With quite irrational confidence, I know I will solve this mystery. You make me strong.”
The ardent tribute left her without a reply.
He seemed to expect none. The supple line of her back attracted him, and he stroked up its length with the care of a man caressing a kitten.
Purring, she savored the ripple of vitality that stole through her veins. “Come to bed, I’ll warm you.” She brushed her palm up the side of his body, delighted as more goose bumps blossomed.
He shifted, pressing one knee into the mattress to ease the weight on his leg. “I suspect you of ulterior motives.”
Dropping her gaze to his thigh, she leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his old scar. “Did it hurt?”
“Like fire.” Running his finger along the curve of her shoulder, he said, “That wormhole of a surgeon wanted to amputate.”
Wincing, she shook her head.
“No, I wouldn’t let him, but there is still a bit of the ship’s deck inside. It troubles me occasionally.”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” she retorted. “Would you like me to kiss it better?”
“I’d like to rest.” At his emphatic statement, her lower lip drooped and she peered at him with the soulful reproach of a street singer who’d been cheated. He lifted his knee atop the bed. “What the hell. I can rest afterward.” He sank onto the bed and let her pull the sheet over him, adding, “After you’ve killed me. That is your plan, isn’t it?”
She didn’t deny it. In a husky voice she promised, “Slowly. Very slowly.”
“My sister!” She rolled over and grasped a handful of chest hair, pulling him to wakefulness by the ungentle tug on his roots. “Why are you betrothed to my sister?”
He shoved her hand away. “Ouch, damn it.”
“That’s no answer.” She reached for him again, and he fended her off.
“Do we have to do this first thing in the morning?” Shielding his eyes against the sun which peeked through a brief break in the clouds, he peered around the room.
“Yes.” She flounced into a sitting position and crossed her arms across her chest. “We do.”
“All right.” Wearily he pulled himself up. “We do.” Rubbing his head with his hands, he said, “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re upset.”
“I would never knowingly sleep with my sister’s betrothed,” she answered, flaunting the lofty ideals that had started this attack.
His gray eyes mocked her fury. “You just did.”
“It was a mistake,” she protested.
“Not just one mistake. Several mistakes. Over long hours.” She turned her head away, and he brought it back with his palm on her chin. His words and gaze pierced her soul. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you abandon your principles so readily when you’re hungry and remember them so indignantly when you’re satiated.” Lip stuck out, she refused to answer, and he dropped his hand. “My betrothal to Olivia stands until the day you demand I be released.”
“How can I demand you be released?” She waved her arms in a windmill. “I’m Olivia’s sister.”
His glare seared her before he rolled off the mattress. His feet hit the floor with a thump.
He was displeased with her. All the satisfaction of the night had dissipated. He acted as though the injustice were hers, and somewhere in back of her mind a disturbing thought niggled at her. Was she wrong? True, she’d left him, she’d wanted him to take Olivia in her place, yet somehow, deep inside, she’d never believed he really would. The Adam she’d fir
At the mirror, he lifted his brush and stroked it through his hair, easing the wildness into some semblance of decorum and tying it back. “Does that look civilized?” he asked, making conversation, saying nothing.
She tugged the sheet up over her shoulders. The chill in the room was not solely from the air. “Not in the least. You look like a seaman with a thin facade of polish.”
He attempted a simper, but his reflection didn’t lie. He couldn’t accomplish it, and he scowled instead.
“Where are you going?” she asked. Are you coming back? she meant, but she didn’t dare ask.
“To Change Alley.”
With the greatest delicacy she inquired, “To find out the truth about this conspiracy?”
“Yes.”
“You say Walpole spoke to you about this in April? Well, this is September twentieth. Perhaps there’s nothing to discover.”
He turned from stranger to enemy as she blinked. His sharp white teeth snapped as he snarled, “If there were nothing to discover, why would fake stock be circulating, passed by one who styles himself as Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson?” He stalked toward her. “Has it occurred to you that the board of directors of the South Sea Company perpetrated one of the biggest frauds ever to take place in the history of mankind? They have stolen millions of pounds from unsuspecting, foolish people, ruined good lives and bad, and are taking the English government to the brink of chaos.”
She considered. “But I don’t believe in conspiracy by committee.”
If he hadn’t been so angry with her, he might have smiled. “You are a very intelligent woman about finance. In matters of the heart, you’re incredibly stupid.” As she gaped, he adjusted the large rings that adorned his fingers. “I do not believe in conspiracy by committee, either. If I were to point at one man, I would say John Blunt, newly created baron, is the culprit.”
“But what is the conspiracy?”
Rubbing his forehead, he said, “I don’t know. Everything so stinks of dishonesty in Change Alley, it’s hard to distinguish a conspiracy from a plot.”
“Then maybe it’s nothing serious, not worth your attention.”
He dropped his hand. “Haven’t you been listening? If all the rest is not enough for you, then think on this. The South Sea Company has hired cutthroats to ‘encourage’ other companies to leave the market.”
She flinched. Here was the core of her worry, tossed at her like a scrap to a beggar. She couldn’t restrain the anxious query that rose to her lips. “Are you endangering your life?”
Belligerence, confidence, and his mad male relish for a fight merged on his face. “I doubt it.”
Furious with him for his lack of caution, furious with Walpole for asking for such a sacrifice, she snapped, “How dare Robert Walpole ask you to spy for him out of mere friendship?”
“For what other reason would I do it?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
Bouncing up, she said, “I don’t know, but I want you to stop.”
“To stop? Stop, when I am so close? Stop, and break my word to my friend?” His hands closed over her shoulders, and he dragged her close. “Why should I stop? Is it because you think the counterfeit stock will disappear from Change Alley if I do?”
She fastened her hands on his wrists. “Don’t be an ass.”
His fingers dug into her skin as he asked, “Are you worried your relationship to a counterfeiter will ruin your reputation?”
Tugging as his grip tightened, she said, “You’re being stupid. My reputation is already ruined.”
He dropped her like a stinging nettle.
One look at his frozen face assured her she’d said it poorly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He picked up his waistcoat and overcoat.
She flew off the bed and grabbed his arm. “You can’t walk out like this.”
Paying her no attention, he opened the door. She dug in her heels, but her puny weight impressed him not at all. She couldn’t follow him down the stairs, not naked, and she shouted after him, “I meant my moral reputation.” He didn’t turn. “Coward!” was her parting shot.
He flinched, and she gained comfort from that as she dressed for the day. Adam was a reasonable man. Surely he’d think about her words and realize why she sought to dissuade him from pursuing this quest. He’d know she worried about his safety. He couldn’t believe she was so shallow as to care how his reputation affected hers. And, oh God, he wouldn’t take her taunt of “coward” as a challenge to put himself in danger.
Awake before the rest of the household, she crept to her desk. She laid out her manuscript, her sheets of paper. She sharpened her quills, uncorked the bottle of ink—and stared out the window at the mist of rain. Translation held no interest for her today. Instead the quill in her hand scribbled everything Adam had confessed, everything she knew about the South Sea stock. Henriette’s words, too, came to haunt her, and she wrote them at the top of the page. Idly she underscored them. He’s going to kill a man by dropping a stock on him.
What did it mean? She had already concluded the stock could be—must be—the South Sea stock. Adam said he thought the conspiracy revolved around the hunt for power. Someone lusted after power, and they would stop at nothing.
She blinked. Greed, money, an English politician who spoke out against the men who promoted the nefarious South Sea bubble…
Her throat closed, and she lifted her hand to ease the constriction.
Robert Walpole.
Nonsense. She shook her head to clear it. If someone wanted to kill Robert Walpole, why hadn’t they done it sooner? But wait. Walpole was out of town. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?
She rushed out of the room, slumped against the wall. Pressing her cold hands on her hot face, she groaned. Another attack of nausea? Another dizzy spell? The sleepless night, the early rising, the tension of the weeks: they all contributed to her state, but, oh God, she had no time for this now. After groping up the stairs, she rapped at Rachelle’s door. Rachelle’s grouchy voice did not dissuade her; she only rapped harder. “Rachelle, it’s Bronwyn.” She listened, but heard nothing. “Rachelle, I need to know something.”
She knocked again, and finally the door opened. Rachelle’s sleepy glare gave her pause. She took a few deep breaths, but nothing could quench her now. “Forgive me for waking you, but I have to know something.”
Rachelle adjusted her nightcap with a yawn. “Such a rush, child,” she rebuked. “I thought I had cured you of that.”
“Is Robert Walpole out of London?”
“Cherie…” Rachelle groaned.
“It’s important.” Fervor returned a bit of her good health, and Bronwyn insisted, “The gossip in the salon last night…did anyone mention Walpole’s return?”
Plainly irked, Rachelle snapped, “You expect me to pay heed to the comings and goings of one insignificant man?”
“Please?” Bronwyn pleaded. “You remember everything, and Adam says Walpole is going to be prominent.”
“So Walpole says, also. He has convinced quite a few people, it seems.” Rachelle closed her eyes and thought. “Walpole came back to the City yesterday and was visited by his financial advisers.”
“Why?” Bronwyn’s peace of mind hung in the balance.
“They say he has lost money in the South Sea scheme.”
“The devil take the man! How dare he fall into their hands so neatly?” Her indignation left Rachelle with open mouth. Making her decision, she said, “I have to find Adam. I’ll go to Change Alley, find Adam, tell him…I’ll make him listen to me. Will you order a sedan chair?”
“Of course, ma cherie.” Rachelle eyed her skeptically. “I trust you know what you are doing?”
“I haven’t got much choice,” Bronwyn said. “If I don’t tell Adam, W
Rachelle never doubted her. “Send a note to Walpole,” she urged.
The fever of alarm touched Bronwyn’s face. “Adam’s life could be in danger.”
“Then you must go. I will get you a sedan chair and rouse Gianni to run beside.” Rachelle gave her a push. “Get your cloak.”
Bronwyn hurried to the entry and with dismay realized her illness had not yet completely fled. The excitement that drove it from her returned it twofold when she hurried or even moved with too much vigor. Cautiously Bronwyn lifted the maroon velvet from its hook and slipped it on. Her purse contained enough to pay the sedan chair and to bribe those with information of Adam’s whereabouts. There were no other preparations she need make—except to banish this creeping affliction and steel herself for the confrontation with the man she loved.
She peered out of the front door and waited. The rain fell with a dreary rhythm. Vapors wafted on dismal breezes. She concentrated on what she would say. “Adam,” she’d say, “I know you think I’m a treacherous hussy.”
No. Perhaps she shouldn’t remind him that he thought her treacherous. How about “Adam, I’ve discovered the key to your mystery.”
In her mind she fantasized the meeting between her and Adam. They would embrace. They would explain, all would be well….
Not even her fertile imagination could see it. More likely Adam would be cold. No one could be colder than he. Even now she could feel the imagined chill of his displeasure.
A large covered carriage rolled up and stopped. Painted shiny white, it sported a gilt trim that made it appear big and embarrassingly gaudy. Fashioned of stained glass, each window pictured classical Italian architecture. In size and shape, the coach resembled a traveling Gypsy lodge, yet this type cruised London streets more and more. The South Sea boom had brought such wealth to the common folk that they bought madly, greedily, looking not to practicality, but to ostentation.
Eagerly she waited for a glimpse of the guest who rode in such a monstrosity and who visited so early in the morning.
No one descended. The coachman leaped down, opened the door, bowed to her without a word.