Confessions at Midnight

Chapter Five

Everything inside Daniel froze. An icy wind seemed to blow through the hole the magistrate's words punched through him. A silent No! screamed through his mind, one he surely would have roared aloud had he been able to draw a breath. An unbearable weight crushed his chest, seemingly collapsing his lungs, shattering his heart. Carolyn… dear God, not Carolyn.

"Lady Crawford's body was discovered just before dawn in the mews behind Lady Walsh's town house," Rayburn said.

The magistrate's words slowly filtered through the numb shock engulfing him like a black fog. He frowned. Then blinked. "Did… did you say Lady Crawford?"

"Yes, my lord. Appears she was bludgeoned to death. Still wore her party costume. Some sort of damsel in distress ensemble. She hadn't been dead long when a rat catcher found her."

His profound relief that the victim wasn't Carolyn rendered him nearly light-headed. Then the ramifications of the magistrate's news about Blythe, Lady Crawford, sank in. "Good God," he said, dragging his hands down his face. "Have you captured the person responsible?"

"No, my lord. Indeed, we've only just begun making inquiries."

Daniel looked at Mr. Mayne. "You're assisting?"

"I've been hired by Lady Crawford's family. Mr. Rayburn has kindly allowed me to be present during his inquiries." He regarded Daniel steadily through eyes so dark it was impossible to discern the pupil from the iris. "You were acquainted with Lady Crawford."

"Yes."

"Intimately acquainted."

It was a statement rather than a question. Daniel kept his expression impassive and studied Gideon Mayne. With his stark features, slightly rumpled clothes, and dark hair that needed a trim, no on would ever accuse him of being classically handsome, although he wasn't unattractive. But he possessed an intimidating air, the sort that suggested he wouldn't hesitate to put his considerable size and strength to use if necessary. Indeed, he looked as if he'd just finished pummeling a dozen or so men into the dirt and wouldn't mind doing so again. Starting with him.

"I'm not in the habit of kissing and telling, Mr. Mayne."

"This is a murder investigation, Lord Surbrooke," said the Runner without the slightest change in his forbidding expression. "Not a digging expedition for gossip fodder."

Not caring for the man's manner, Daniel deliberately waited to the mental count of ten before replying. "Blythe and I are-were-longtime friends." God, it simply wasn't possible that she was dead.

"Just how friendly were you?" Mayne persisted.

"I hardly see how that matters," Daniel said, "unless…" He lifted a single brow and shifted his gaze to Rayburn. "… I'm a suspect."

Mayne didn't deny it, and Rayburn shot the Runner a quick scowl. "We're asking the same questions of everyone who attended last night's party, hoping that maybe someone saw something that will lead us to the killer." Rayburn withdrew a notebook from inside his jacket then asked, "Did you see anything or anyone that might be considered suspicious?"

Daniel considered for several seconds, then shook his head. "No. The party was the usual crush. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Do you have reason to believe the culprit was a guest?"

"No reason to believe anything at this point except we've got a dead woman on our hands," Mayne broke in. "We've a witness who says you spoke to Lady Crawford last night."

"I did. We exchanged a few words."

"On the terrace?" asked Rayburn.

"Yes." After Carolyn had departed, he remained outdoors for nearly half an hour, lost in his thoughts. Blythe had stepped outside and approached him, pulling him from his solitary musings.

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing of consequence. The weather. The party. A musicale we're both invited to next week."

"How long were you together?"

"No more than five minutes. The air was damp and chilly and she grew cold. I escorted her back inside then left the party."

"What time did you depart?"

"I'm not absolutely certain, as I didn't consult my watch, but I'd guess it was approaching two a.m."

"And where did you go?"

Daniel raised his brows. "Here. I came home."

"Can anyone verify that?" Mayne broke in. "Your coachman or house servants perhaps?"

"I'm afraid not. I dismissed my carriage and driver after arriving at the party and therefore walked home. My staff was asleep when I arrived."

"Even your butler and valet?"

"I'm afraid so. Barkley and Redmond are not young men. I do not require them to wait for me to arrive home."

Rayburn made notations in his small notebook then looked up. "Do you know of anyone who might wish Lady Crawford harm?"

"No. She was a lovely, personable woman. Surely her death is the result of footpads."

"Perhaps," Rayburn said, "although 'tis clear robbery was not the motive."

"Why do you say that?" Daniel asked.

"Because Lady Crawford's jewelry was intact. She wore a very distinctive pearl choker."

An image of a triple strand of perfectly matched pearls flickered through Daniel's mind. "Did the choker have a diamond and ruby clasp?"

Interest flickered in Rayburn's eyes. "Yes. How did you know?"

As he had nothing to hide and they could easily find out anyway from a number of sources, including the jeweler, he said, "It sounds like a piece I gave Blythe."

"Quite an expensive bauble to give a mere friend," Mayne remarked. "When did you give it to her?"

"Late last year. And yes, it was quite valuable. Perhaps the killer meant to steal it but was frightened off before he could do so."

"Perhaps," Rayburn said, jotting another notation in his notebook. "Do you know if Lady Crawford was currently… involved with anyone?"

He'd heard a vague rumor that Lord Warwick-whom he neither liked nor admired-was Blythe's latest conquest, but since it wasn't his habit to repeat unsubstantiated gossip, he said, "I'm not certain. I just arrived in Town yesterday afternoon after an extended stay in the country. I can only tell you that she wasn't involved with me."

"Currently," Mayne said.

Daniel shifted his attention to the Runner and offered him nothing more than a cold stare. He wouldn't lie, but he'd be damned if he would say anything that might sully a dead woman's memory. Especially to this brusque Runner who was glaring at him as if he'd committed the crime. His affair with Blythe had lasted less than two months-a torrid few weeks that had flared quickly then burned out. He'd soon realized that beneath her stunning beauty lurked a vain, selfish, and not particularly nice woman. It was quite possible she had enemies, although who they might be, he didn't know. Regardless, she didn't deserve the horrible end she'd come to.

"Is there anything else?" Daniel asked.

"Your costume," said Rayburn, "Can you describe it?"

"It was quite plain-black shirt, breeches, boots and mask, and a long black cape."

"The rat catcher saw someone wearing a black cape leaving the mews just as he entered."

Daniel's brows rose. "I'm hardly the only guest who wore a black cape. Perhaps this rat catcher is the fiend you're looking for."

"Perhaps," Mayne said, but in a tone that made it clear he didn't think so. Indeed, everything in the man's demeanor indicated that he considered Daniel a suspect.

"That's all, my lord," said Rayburn.

"For now," added Mayne.

Daniel rose and led the way to the foyer. "Thank you for your time, my lord," said Rayburn at the door.

"You're welcome. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance."

"We will," Mayne said, accepting his hat from Barkley. He then gave Daniel a curt nod and departed, with Rayburn on his heels. The instant the door closed behind them, Samuel entered the foyer.

"Well?" he asked, his white-gloved hands clenched, his face drawn and pale. "Are they lookin' for me?"

"No." He told Samuel and Barkley about his conversation with Rayburn and Mayne, concluding with, "I cannot believe this has happened. Cannot fathom that Blythe is dead. And that she died in such a horrible way."

A frown furrowed between Samuel's brows. "Ye'd best be careful, milord. 'Tis clear they're sniffin' in your direction for this killin'."

Daniel nodded thoughtfully. "I had that impression myself. Especially from Mayne, who looked as if he wanted nothing more than to cart me off to the gallows. But they said they intended to question everyone who attended the party. I'm not the only man who wore a black cape or who spoke to Blythe last evening." Nor was he the only man with whom she'd had an affair.

But instead of looking relieved, Samuel appeared even more worried. "But the necklace she wore were one ye gave her. I know how these men of the law are, milord. They get an idea in their heads and it don't much matter if they're wrong. I've seen more than one innocent man arrested."

Daniel forced a smile. "Not to worry. They were merely doing their jobs and being thorough. The good news is that their inquiries had nothing to do with you."

Samuel's stiff posture relaxed a bit. "That is good news indeed."

Daniel glanced toward the ormolu clock and noted with relief that it was no longer impossibly early. "I'm going out for a while. When I return, I'll prepare myself to meet Baldy."

In the meantime he had a goddess to see-and now for an even more pressing matter than discussing their terrace interlude. With a murderer on the loose, he needed to make certain Carolyn was protected.

Carolyn stood in her foyer, her feet rooted to the black and white marble tiles as she watched Nelson close the door after Mr. Rayburn and Mr. Mayne. Her brief interview with them had shocked her.

Still stunned, she slowly made her way back to the drawing room, trying to absorb the incredible, horrible news that Lady Crawford was dead. Murdered.

A shudder ran through her. They hadn't been close friends, barely more than acquaintances, but of course she knew the beautiful widow. She'd told Mr. Rayburn and Mr. Mayne everything she knew, which was next to nothing, and answered all their questions, thinking the entire time that some awful mistake must have been made.

After closing the drawing room door behind her, she crossed the Turkish rug to her desk and sat. Picking up her quill, she tried to resume the chore she'd been attempting to accomplish when the magistrate and Bow Street Runner arrived-to write a note to Lady Walsh thanking her for the lovely party last evening. But now, as before, all she managed to do was stare at the blank vellum. And remember.

Him.

The sound of his voice. The touch of his hands. The scent of his skin. The taste of his kiss. The heat that had poured through her, melting her until she felt as if she'd dissolve into a puddle at his feet.

With an exclamation of disgust, she set down the quill and rose. Paced the length of the room several times, then halted before the fireplace. And looked up. To stare at the handsome face, the beautiful green eyes, of the husband she'd loved so much.

The instant she'd returned home last night, she came to this very room, where she'd remained until dawn, staring at Edward's portrait while tears tracked down her face and guilt ate her. Not only for what she'd done, but because she had enjoyed it so much. And she'd realized, with no small amount of chagrin, that part of her wished her interlude with Lord Surbrooke hadn't ended so abruptly. Had continued. In a more private setting.

Yet another part of her wanted desperately to forget the encounter, dismiss the shocking, unexpected passion he'd released within her. But she couldn't stop thinking about him. Even as she gazed at Edward's beloved face, the other man infiltrated her thoughts. Wormed his way into her recollections of past waltzes and kisses she'd shared with Edward. And for that she deeply resented him. He'd proven a highwayman indeed, stealing her common sense and her private memories of her husband.

As dawn had broken, leaking streaks of mauve into the quiet room, she finally climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, believing she'd put the episode into perspective. Her aberration in judgment was purely the result of the anonymity of the masque. If not for her costume, she never would have behaved in such an uncharacteristic manner. It was Galatea, not Carolyn Turner, Viscountess Wingate, who'd lost her head. Now that she'd shed her false identity, she wouldn't make such an error again. She wanted to move on with her life, but in the capacity of a sedate widow. Not an adventuress seeking sensual pleasure.

Thankfully, Lord Surbrooke didn't know she was the woman he'd kissed. She just needed to put the encounter out of her mind-and surely after a day or so she'd forget it-and pretend it hadn't happened.

Now, after a few hours' sleep, and with the morning sunshine pouring through the window, the entire episode did seem somewhat of a dream. A feverish dream, one obviously fueled by her avid readings of the Memoirs. Readings that had unexpectedly reawakened sensual needs she'd thought long buried. Needs she'd never expected to feel again.

Her gaze lowered to her desk's top drawer, and reaching out, she slowly slid it open. Moved aside several sheets of vellum to reveal a slim, black, leather-bound volume. Ran her fingers over the gold lettering adorning the cover, memoirs of a mistress.

She'd wanted to toss it into the fire this morning, had attempted to do so, yet something held her back. The same unsettling something that had prevented her from refusing Lord Surbrooke's invitation to dance. Or his suggestion that they retire to the terrace. It was something she could neither define nor ignore. Something that deeply troubled her.

Pulling the book from the drawer, she opened it to a random page.

… he sank deeper into our kiss, his tongue slowly mating with mine, an intoxicating friction that made me burn for the moment when his body would finally sink into-

With a groan she slapped the pages shut, the sharp snap echoing in the quiet room. After drawing a shaky breath, she snatched up the book, lifted her chin and strode with determined, resolute steps toward the fireplace.

She stood on the stone hearth, clutching the book, the heat of the low burning fire warming her through her morning gown. Her mind demanded she toss the volume into the flames, yet still she hesitated.

With a groan, she lowered her head to rest her chin against the book's edge. Why, oh why had she read it? Before doing so she hadn't questioned her life, her decisions. She knew exactly who she was-Edward's widow. She lived a quiet, calm, circumspect existence, and while some might have considered it lacking in excitement, it suited her. Perfectly. She had her routine. Her correspondence. Her sister and friends. Her embroidery… although she had to admit that she hated embroidery.

But then she'd read this… this damnable book.

She lifted her head to glare at the offending volume. Her fingers clenched it so tightly her knuckles turned white. Now all she could think about was… that.

That… and Lord Surbrooke.

She squeezed her eyes shut and an image of him instantly materialized. Not of him costumed as the dark and alluring highwayman, but as himself, as he'd been at Matthew's house party. His dark blue gaze resting on her, his lovely mouth curved in that slightly crooked grin. A lock of his thick, dark hair falling over his brow.

Her heart rate quickened and she slowly opened her eyes. Stared into the dancing orange and gold flames. And forced herself to face the truth. Her attraction to Lord Surbrooke had taken root well before she'd ever read the Memoirs. The seeds had been planted during Matthew's country house party, and now… now they'd bloomed into something completely unexpected. Entirely unwanted. Yet totally undeniable.

And roundly unacceptable.

God Lord, if she was to entertain an attraction to a man-something she'd honestly never considered-why was it him? She couldn't deny that from a purely physical standpoint he was extremely handsome, but she'd never been drawn to any man based on mere good looks. Indeed, because of her own upbringing, she tended to avoid such spectacular looking men. She'd been instantly drawn to Edward, who, to her, was extraordinarily handsome, but not in any obvious way. His looks were subdued. Understated. As was his gentle manner. She'd fallen in love with his quiet sense of humor. His intelligence and integrity. His profound kindness and amiability.

Lord Surbrooke, with his stunning looks, heated glances, and reputation as a charming rogue, was not at all the sort of man she'd ever preferred.

Again she looked at the book clutched in her hands. Even though the Memoirs may not have struck the match of her unwanted attraction, it certainly fanned the flames with its sensual stories, embedding steamy images in her mind. Images in which Lord Surbrooke prominently figured. Images she wanted, desperately, to banish.

Clearly, ridding herself of this book was the first step toward that end, with the second step being to avoid Lord Surbrooke. Surely that wouldn't be too difficult. He no doubt had dozens of women hanging on his every word to occupy his time. Women with whom he shared all manner of intimacies. Women he kissed passionately at masquerade balls…

A heated shiver rippled down her spine, followed immediately by a strange knotting in her stomach. An irritating tension that felt precisely like… jealousy.

Her brows snapped downward. Good heavens, what did she care if he kissed other women? Made love to them? She didn't. Not at all. Since he'd had no idea whom he was kissing last night, it had clearly been just another anonymous encounter for him, one he'd most likely already forgotten. One which, thank goodness, he'd had the presence of mind to call a halt to. Surely she would have if he hadn't. Surely, after just another few seconds of kissing, she would have pushed him away. Her annoyingly honest inner voice coughed to life and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like Not bloody likely. She managed, with an effort, to ignore it.

Still, a tiny, contrary part of her thrilled at the notion that she'd elicited such a passionate response from him. She hadn't known herself capable of doing so. As ardent as Edward had always been, she'd never incited such a… lack of restraint in him. And certainly not at a party. Somewhere they could have been discovered.

A wave of shame washed over her at her thoughts, which she could only label as disloyal. It was both unfair and ridiculous to compare Edward, who had been unfailingly polite and mannerly in every aspect of his life, with a man she barely knew, and what little she did know about him proved he was capable of less than decorous behavior.

Obviously the loneliness that had been plaguing her had gotten the better of her, propelling her to act in a most uncharacteristic fashion last night. While she had no intention of repeating her actions, there was no point in keeping anything that might encourage her to again step outside the cozy cocoon she'd wrapped around herself.

Drawing a resolute breath, she crouched before the fire and slowly extended the Memoirs. Let it go, her mind urged. Toss it in. It was the right thing to do. Her better judgment, her common sense, knew it.

A knock on the door startled her and she jumped to her feet. A guilty flush scorched her, although she wasn't sure why, and she quickly shoved the book beneath the brocade cushion of the settee. "Come in," she called.

Nelson opened the door, then approached her bearing a silver salver upon which sat a calling card. "You've a visitor, my lady," the butler said, extending the polished tray.

Carolyn picked up the card, looked at the neatly printed writing. Her heart performed a quick acrobatic roll then settled into a rhythm of hard, fast beats.

Good God, what was he doing here?

"Are you at home, my lady?"

Carolyn swallowed. "Yes. You may show Lord Surbrooke in." The words somehow came out of her mouth in spite of the fact that they were the exact opposite of what she knew she should be saying.

Nelson inclined his head then withdrew. The instant he quit the room Carolyn dashed to the mirror hanging on the far wall. And barely bit back an Ack! of dismay. No need to pinch her cheeks to give herself some color-the crimson blush staining her skin made it appear as if she'd stuck her face in an oven. Good heavens, even her eyes appeared a bit red, not to mention somewhat swollen, courtesy of too much crying and too little sleep. Or perhaps it was just a reflection from her glowing cheeks.

She pressed her lips together and frowned. What difference did it make what she looked like? Why, none at all! She had no desire to impress Lord Surbrooke. None at all.

Footfalls sounded from the corridor, and with a gasp she hurried away from the mirror. Halting in front of the fireplace, she barely had time to smooth her suddenly damp palms down her gown when Nelson appeared in the doorway.

"Lord Surbrooke," he announced. After a quick bow, he stepped aside and Lord Surbrooke moved into the opening. And Carolyn's heart performed another tumbling roll.

Heavens, the man looked far too appealing by half. As always, he was immaculately groomed. From his midnight blue cutaway jacket that perfectly matched his eyes and accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, to his snowy white shirt and cravat that fell in a perfect waterfall knot, down to fawn breeches that hugged his muscular legs, to his mirror-shined black boots.

He walked slowly toward her, and Carolyn could do nothing save stare, rendered mute by the predatory grace of his movements. Heavens. He walked well. Danced well. Kissed… extraordinarily well.

Heat raced through her and she barely managed to keep from fanning her hand in front of her face. Watching him made her feel as if she were standing next to a blazing hearth. You are standing next to a blazing hearth, her inner voice reminded her.

Relief raced through her and she moved several steps away from the fireplace. Of course she was. No wonder it was so warm in here. It had absolutely nothing to do with her visitor.

Over Lord Surbrooke's shoulder she vaguely noticed Nelson pulling the door closed. If she'd had her wits about her she would have called out to him to leave the door open, but it appeared she was fully witless. And speechless.

Lord Surbrooke halted, leaving a respectable six foot distance between them-one she felt distressingly tempted to lessen.

He said something-she knew because his lips moved-but his words didn't penetrate because the memory of their kiss inundated her with such intensity, all she could hear was her heart beat thudding in her ears.

There… his lips were moving again. Those beautiful, masculine lips that looked so firm and felt so wonderful. Those lips… those lips… dear God, she'd completely lost the entire thread of the conversation. Not to mention her mind.

Snapping her gaze away from his mouth, she looked into his eyes then cleared her throat to locate her missing voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I was afraid it might be too early to call. Thank you for seeing me."

"Actually, you aren't my first visitor of the day."

"Oh?" His gaze sharpened with interest. "Would your other visitors have been Mr. Rayburn and Mr. Mayne?"

Carolyn nodded. "Yes. They've visited you as well? They mentioned they intended to interview all the party guests."

"They left my home not long ago. A terrible, shocking thing, Lady Crawford's death."

"Dreadful. I hope they catch the killer quickly."

"As do I. But until he is apprehended, you must take extra care. Do not go anywhere unescorted."

"It is not my habit to do so."

"Good."

Silence fell between them. She cast desperately about in her mind for something to say, a difficult task, for the sight of him in her drawing room somehow emptied her mind. And in spite of the room's spacious size, his presence seemed to reduce the area to no larger than a box.

It was he who finally broke the quiet. "Am I interrupting anything?"

She suddenly recalled what she'd been doing when Nelson announced him-preparing to toss the Memoirs into the fire. Her gaze darted to the settee and dismay washed through her. The edge of the book protruded from beneath the cushion.

"Nothing," she said quickly. And perhaps a shade too loudly. "You're not interrupting anything. However, I'm curious as to why you're calling." Yes, please tell me. Quickly. Then leave. So I can start forgetting all about you.

A smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. "May I sit down?"

No. Tell me then leave. And quit smiling. "Of course." She indicated the wing chair, but instead he settled himself on the settee. Directly over the Memoirs. She stared at the cushion in alarm… alarm that melted into chagrin as she realized her gaze was now riveted on his groin. His absolutely fascinating groin.

She sucked in a quick breath and lifted her eyes. And found him studying her. In a way that made that it clear that she'd been caught staring. At his fascinating groin.

Good God. This visit had barely begun and already it was a disaster. At least it couldn't get any worse.

Pulling herself together, she sat at the opposite end of the settee and managed to say in a perfectly composed tone, "What did you wish to see me about, Lord Surbrooke?"

"I wanted to give you something." He held out a glass jar sealed with wax, filled with an amber colored substance.

Carolyn stared at the offering in surprise. Where had that come from? Clearly he'd been holding it all along and she hadn't noticed. Because you were so preoccupied staring at his lips. And eyes. And fascinating groin.

She accepted the jar and held it up to the light. "It looks like honey."

He smiled. "Probably because it is honey. From my own bees. I keep a number of skeps at Meadow Hill, my country estate in Kent."

"I… thank you," she said, unable to keep the note of surprise from her voice. "I'm very fond of honey."

"Yes, I know."

"You do? How?"

"You mentioned it during one of our conversations at Matthew's house party."

"Did I?" she murmured, far more pleased than she should have been that he'd remember such a minor detail. "I don't recall."

"I wished to give you something, but wasn't certain what it should be. But then you said you'd prefer a gift that reminded me of you. And honey reminds me of you," he said softly. "It is the exact color of your hair."

Her brow pulled downward. Surely she hadn't said anything so… forward to him. "When did I say that?"

He reached out and lightly touched a tendril of her hair. The intimate gesture stopped her breath. "Last night. On the terrace." His gaze seemed to bore into hers. "Galatea."

She actually felt the blood drain from her head, leaving nothing save a buzzing sound in her ears. Good God. Had she, less than a minute ago, believed this visit couldn't get any worse? Yes, she had.

Obviously she'd been very, very wrong.