A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 14

INWARDLY SMILING, CHARLES GRIPPED HER WAIST; FOR LONG moments, as her tongue dueled with his, he simply savored the feel of her between his hands, supple, imbued with feminine strength, subtly rather than overtly curvaceous.

Why that last should so attract him he’d never understood; perhaps it was because her body with its svelte charms echoed her elusive and therefore more tantalizing feminine responses.

If she liked challenges, he liked them even more. Especially when they were feminine. Especially when the female was her.

Letting her have her way wasn’t easy; his instinct in this arena was always to control, for his partner’s pleasure as much as his own. But pleasure was not the only currency he-they-were dealing in; if he wanted that other coin in the mix, he had to give ground, yield as she wished, and accept the risk that whatever was revealed wasn’t too frightening. Either for her, or him.

She pressed close again, and he shuddered, then she drew back enough to start on his clothes. Coat, waistcoat, cravat all went while he schooled himself to do no more than return her kisses, to leave his hands riding at her waist. He wasn’t sure where her imagination might lead her; he was eager to learn.

Inevitably he responded, not just to her nearness or the touch of her hands, but even more to her intent. From the instant she’d turned into his arms, that had never been in doubt. She wanted to take him inside her, wanted him inside her; that knowledge alone was enough to make him ache.

He tried not to dwell on it, instead reminded himself that courtesy of her relative inexperience combined with her confidence, the moments before they reached any rapturous state were bound to be not just fraught, but full of potential potholes large enough for him to bury himself in. He was feeling his way with her just as much as he was with her relative, but succeeding with her was far more important.

She’d opened his shirt; now she broke from the kiss, spread the halves wide, and visually devoured. “Stand still.” She leaned close and set her mouth to his skin.

He closed his eyes, felt his fingers tighten about her, helpless to desist, and reminded himself how vitally important winning her had become. Her mouth felt like flames licking over his already heated skin. Her greedy fingers danced, tangling in the dark hair dusting the muscle bands, finding the flat disc of one nipple and teasing, lightly tweaking.

Her lips and tongue distracted him while her fingers slid down to his waistband. And stilled.

She trailed kisses up the midline of his chest, through the hollow at the base of his throat, then up to his chin. He opened his eyes as she drew back, studying his face. He raised a brow.

“I’m thinking.”

That struck him as even more dangerous than usual. “Would you like me to make a suggestion?”

She shook her head, her gaze perfectly steady. “I’m trying to decide which, not what.”

It was going to be torture whichever option she chose.

One brow arched; she looked at him consideringly. “I think…” She stepped back, out of his hold. “Stay there-don’t move.”

He watched as she took another step away, then, hands bunching the fabric at her sides, she drew up her nightgown.

He’d been right, much good did it do him; the battle to remain where he was, to not reach for her as she-smoothly, gracefully, and entirely unhurriedly-drew her nightgown up and off over her head, then tossed it to fall across her dressing stool was fraught, as difficult as any he’d faced. Totally naked, she considered his chest, then her gaze drifted down.

“Your boots-take them off.”

Leaning back against the edge of her bed, he complied, flicking open his breeches’ buckles and stripping off his hose as well, setting all to one side.

As he straightened, he fixed his gaze on her feet, then slowly traced upward, over the curves of her calves, the long, sculpted lines of her thighs, lighting on the thatch of pale blond curls at their apex before idly drifting up over her belly, her waist, her breasts, ultimately to meet her eyes.

Her skin was already faintly tinged; in the moonlight he couldn’t tell if his perusal had made it rosier still.

She held his gaze for a moment, then smiled, a cat sighting cream.

“Good,” she said, and closed the distance between them.

He’d forgotten his legs were against her bed; she stepped into him, not trapping him but limiting his ability to move-to create any distance between them-without moving her. Her breasts brushed his chest, wickedly evocative, then she lifted her head and set her lips to his-and set her hands and her body willfully to his. To work on his.

That was the option she’d chosen.

She plunged into his mouth, deliberately seized his senses with a scalding kiss, then broke away to take mouth, lips, and tongue on a ride of pleasuring delight over his burning skin, over his tensed muscles, flickering beneath the restraint he’d placed on them.

He hauled in a breath, held it as her fingers dallied once more at his waistband. As her mouth cruised across his chest, then commenced a leisurely descent. Slowly raising his hands, he spread them over her back, holding her lightly, tracing upward to rest on her shoulders as she wended her way down.

Until she flicked the buttons at his waistband free, in one easy stroke slid his breeches down, in the same movement sank to her knees, fitted her mouth over him, and smoothly took him in.

He nearly expired. For one finite instant, his heart stood still, then bolted. Raced as she experimented, hurdled when she bent to her self-appointed task of pleasuring him witless.

His hands had risen, without direction had fisted in her hair. His fingers tightened as she drew him deeper still; he realized he could no longer breathe. Eyes closed, he clung to the only thing she’d left him-sensation-and felt every last scintilla of her devotion as she licked, stroked, sucked, his existence reduced to the hot wetness of her mouth, to the scope of her will as she caressed him.

He’d had no idea she would even think of it, of pandering to his senses, his passions in such an overtly immodest way. In such a blatantly wanton way. Battling to mute the groan she drew from him, he wondered if she’d guessed what her being wanton, so utterly abandoned, did to him.

It was more than torture to stand still and force himself simply to accept all she pressed on him, to look down at her pale head moving against him, her flaxen locks spreading and tangling, catching as she worked, and not respond, not grasp, seize, and demand more.

Simply to receive.

To not have to issue any demands at all, but to have many of the wanton thoughts he’d indulged over the years brought to life. To have caresses he’d dreamed of lavished upon him.

Because she wished to.

The thought very nearly brought him-and her-undone. He endured for ten heartbeats, then, gasping, sensually reeling for the first time in more years than he could count, he guided his hands to her face, slid his thumb into her mouth, and withdrew his erection from that gloriously wet haven. “No more.”

The words were so gravelly Penny could barely make them out, but through her hands on his thighs she sensed the tension in him-more than she recalled evoking in him before-and knew enough to heed it. But she’d learned enough for now; the maids she’d overheard whispering hadn’t been wrong.

Rocking back on her heels, she rose, trailing her hand up as she did, closing it around his jutting length. With her other hand, she prodded his chest. “Sit on the bed.”

His eyes met hers; she glimpsed the predator in him, but he complied. Obligingly, he sat back. She followed, clambering up, setting one knee on either side of his hips, straddling him. Then she locked her eyes with his. One hand on his shoulder for balance, the other wrapped about his erection, she slowly, deliberately, entirely at her own discretion, impaled herself on him.

And he let her.

She felt the effort it cost him, saw how clenched his jaw was, saw his lids drift down in surrender as she sank fully down, her softness sheathing his hardness, her body sliding down his to finally come to rest breasts to chest. Draping her arms over his shoulders, she set her lips to his, slid into his mouth, danced her tongue over his, then started to move upon him.

A dance of a different sort.

It wasn’t the same as when he’d lain flat; although she experimented, she couldn’t find quite the right angle…

Desire had already burgeoned within her; she needed more, soon.

Drawing back from the kiss, dragging in a gasping breath, she clung and pressed closer; her head beside his brought their bodies even tighter against each other, but no…

“This”-she had to haul in another breath-“isn’t quite right.” She whispered the words beside his ear. Dragged in another breath. “Is it?”

She felt rather than heard a chuckle that came out more like a groan.

“You saw this in some book, didn’t you?”

She bit his earlobe-hard. “How else?”

“You’re too tall-there’s a better way for us.”

She licked the spot she’d bitten. Purred, “How?”

His hands, until then loose across her back, slid down to grip her bottom. He held her to him as he shifted, swinging his legs up, holding her against him as he came to his knees, then sank back to sit on his ankles.

Resettling her over him, straddling his hips, he resettled himself within her. Brushed back the veil of her hair and met her eyes. “How’s that?”

Her hands on his shoulders, she rose up, then slowly sank down. Her knees and thighs now at a different angle, she had much better purchase on the bed. Their bodies entire seemed much better aligned, at least for their present purpose. Sliding her hands up, she framed his face, smiled her answer-and kissed him.

Let go all restraint and gave herself over to the now driving need to love him, to meet him on the physical plane, match him and experience all that together they might know. That together they could share.

And he went with her, but still at her command, following not leading, letting her set the pace and the direction, letting her ride them both hard, furious, and unswerving toward the sun.

She reached it, and burned.

Charles let the conflagration take her, let it consume her. Watched it claim her. He found a strength he didn’t know he possessed and held back from the beckoning blaze.

And waited. Until release had swept through her and away.

My turn. He didn’t say the words; she wouldn’t have heard them if he had. Holding her to him, he fought to free enough of his mind from the heat of her slick sheath to direct his hands and rearrange her limbs.

Her limp arms he draped over his shoulders, her legs he straightened one at a time and wrapped them about his waist, then he took her bottom in both hands, supporting her weight, tipping her hips to him.

And smoothly drove into her. Embedded himself to the hilt, then gripped her bottom and moved her on him. Worked her hips over his. In this position, he only had to thrust a little to fill her, to penetrate her forcefully as deeply as he could. She was fully open to him, totally his, totally helpless to resist. Totally and completely in his power.

Penny awoke to that jolting reality on a rush of intense sensation. Surely he was deeper, farther inside her than he’d ever been?

She gasped, eyes closed, clung tight as she assimilated their new position-assimilated the devastating impact it was having on her already heightened senses. And at some deeper level, on her very being.

The rhythm he set was neither fast nor slow, but perfectly gauged and relentless. Her senses spun. She tried to squirm, to press ahead still faster, to gain even more delicious pressure for her suddenly clamorous nerves, but instead his fingers tightened; he held her immobile, suspended half-off him for a heartbeat, until she sobbed and clutched in desperation, then he filled her, deep and hard and shockingly thoroughly, again.

Oh, yes, her senses sobbed.

Her breasts, riding against his hair-dusted chest, had swollen until they ached, the nipples so tightly ruched and sensitive she longed to feel his mouth soothing them. In desperation, she clutched his shoulders, extended her arms, and leaned back so her breasts were no longer so excruciatingly abraded.

He bent his head and set his lips to one breast, found her nipple, took it into his hot mouth, and suckled.

Lightning streaked through her; she screamed, gasped, and arched in his arms. He held her easily, continued to work her hips, continued to thrust into her body, continued to feast on her breasts…until she shattered.

More completely than she ever had.

For long moments, she was floating, out of touch with any world but the sensate, aware only of him, his touch, his…worship.

There seemed no other word for it. Even now, he didn’t seek his own release, but sought to lengthen and heighten hers. She didn’t know the ways, but felt the results, felt the golden pleasure well and swell and buoy her on.

It seemed eons, but could only have been minutes before she drifted back to earth, and found herself wrapped in his arms, secure and safe against his chest, her head on his shoulder. He was still hard and rigid within her.

She shifted her head, found his ear, caressed it with her lips. Murmured, “Lay me down. Take me now.”

He drew back to look into her eyes. For a moment, their gazes locked, and she wondered what he saw, what he looked for when he searched her eyes…what he wanted from her.

She could sense his heartbeat, feel his tension, yet it wasn’t desire that stared at her from his eyes.

But then he shifted, lifted her from him, laid her on the pillows. His touch was assured as he settled her, flicked her hair out, laid it about her, then drew the covers from beneath her and let them fall where they would. She was suddenly aware of the flaring emptiness within her, the emptiness he’d filled, that when he was within her she was whole, in some way complete. His eyes, his hands, never left her; as he spread her thighs and loomed over her, that emptiness swelled to an ache.

Then he filled her.

Relief fell from her in a soft sob. Braced above her, he looked down at her as he moved, and started a slow ride of his own.

Long, slow-how a compulsion so fraught, so driven, could feel so languid in execution was something she couldn’t comprehend. He made it seem so, yet it wasn’t. He seemed almost relaxed as he rhythmically drove into her, yet he was very far from that.

Reaching up, she ran her hands over his chest, over the locked muscles in his upper arms, over the broad sweep of his shoulders, then she tugged, arched as he drove deeper, harder, then he groaned and obliged.

He lowered his body to hers, and she stopped thinking.

Her existence shrank to just him and her in the soft shadows of her bed, to shared breaths, gasps, to the wonder of swift shared glances in the dark, to their bodies flexing, merging to the dance they performed it seemed instinctively. She didn’t need to think to know what to do, but could simply let instinct guide her.

Could be with him in this way without thought or concern, or restraint, could simply give herself up to him. As he gave himself to her.

In the end, wholly, completely, without reserve. The wave reared, then crashed, and swept them both away.

They clung, held tight to the moment, to sensation, to each other.

The wave receded and left them, for a moment adrift on a sea of their own making, then they sank back to earth, to the earthly comfort of her bed.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, they slept.

She woke in the deep watches of the night with no idea what had roused her.

She lay still, and listened…realized as she registered her breathing and his that she hadn’t, not even in that fleeting moment of first awareness, felt surprised to find Charles beside her, to feel his arm lying over her waist.

The moon was now high; silvery light streamed through the open curtains, the bright shaft striking the floor beside the bed, throwing enough light for her night-adjusted eyes to see clearly.

No ripple of the unexpected disturbed the stillness about them.

All seemed peaceful. Comforting. Right.

As it should be.

She shifted just enough to look at him. He was slumped facedown in the bed beside her, deeply asleep. Even so, one arm lay flung over her, long fingers relaxed against her side; she wouldn’t give much for her chances of sliding from the bed. Of leaving him.

That odd look she’d seen and even more sensed in his eyes returned to haunt her. Frowning, she tried to fathom what it meant. In that moment, she was perfectly sure neither he nor she could have pretended anything. He’d sworn he was no longer capable of pretense, not in that sphere; she now understood enough of his past to believe him.

Sinking into the soft mattress, she thought back over the night…smiled at the success of her strategy.

That strange look floated once again across her mind.

She shook it aside. She knew what they were doing this time; it was a physical engagement, an affair with no emotional strings on either side. That was the mistake she’d made last time, imagining something that hadn’t been, not understanding how he saw it. He hadn’t felt for her as she’d thought-not as she’d felt for him-and that’s how he’d always see her. They were close friends indisputably, lovers in the physical sense, but nothing more.

This time she accepted that that was how it would be; she’d gone into this with her eyes open. They would share and indulge in physical pleasure as they would, until they grew tired of it; she had no doubt that whatever transpired they would remain forever friends. He would go off and do whatever he would do, and she would continue as she had been, but with a wealth of memories to warm her, to reassure her that she was as female, as feminine, as desirable as any of her sex.

She knew, this time, what she wanted from him; this time that matched what she could expect to receive. This time, she hadn’t put her heart on the table and expected to receive his in return.

Her gaze drifted to his face, the section she could see. His dark hair lay in heavy locks over his forehead; his beard was starting to shadow his jaw.

Again, that odd, lingering, wanting look of his filled her mind…

He’d spoken of a jigsaw with pieces that didn’t fit; this seemed more like one thread too many for the tapestry she’d thought they’d been weaving. That look was evidence of an extra strand, something she hadn’t expected, something that didn’t fit with the picture of them she’d assembled in her mind.

But that look had been real, not imagined, not something concocted for her distraction. It had been raw, undisguised, unshielded.

Which was why it wouldn’t leave her mind.

Charles came awake in the instant the tumblers of the lock on Penny’s door clunked. He sat up, looked across the room, aware she was awake, too.

The latch lifted, the door swung noiselessly open-all the way open.

The moonlight streaming in was bright; the unlit corridor was pitch-black in contrast. All he could see was the vague outline of a man.

He swore and leapt from the bed.

The man ran.

Grabbing up his breeches, he yanked them on, stomped into his boots. Penny had sat up, covers clutched to her chest, staring at the open door. The sound of running footsteps receding along the corridor reached them.

“Stay there!” He was at the door on the words; he paused only long enough to grab the key from the inside lock, fit it to the outside, then he slammed the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. And raced after the shadowy figure he glimpsed at the head of the stairs.

The man pelted down the stairs, leaping, swinging from the banister. Charles reached the top, and flung himself after him. The man was making for the front door. The bolts would slow him.

Except that the front door stood wide open.

Charles slowed in disbelief as he ran into the wide swath of moonlight pouring into the front hall. Realizing, he swerved to the side, out of the light. He heard the scrunch of booted feet fleeing-then nothing.

Walking out onto the porch, he looked in the direction of the last sound, but as he’d expected, the shrubbery was a mass of dense shadows. The man could be standing there or fleeing through it; it was impossible to tell.

Hands on his hips, he stood waiting for his breathing to even out, and softly swore. He was far too wise to give further chase. The man had come to Penny’s room; if he left the house, the villain might circle around and try for her again. He wasn’t leaving her unguarded, not in this lifetime.

But why the hell had the front door been unlocked? Not even the best locksman could get past its heavy double bolts.

He was turning to check the bolts when a shifting shadow made him freeze. Then he stared. Hands in his pockets, Nicholas came walking up along one of the garden paths, one easily reached from the rear of the shrubbery.

Charles waited where he was, in full sight.

Nicholas saw him from some distance away; reaching the steps, he started up. “What are you doing here?”

Charles paused long enough for Nicholas to sense how very wrong things were, then said, “Some man broke into Penny’s room.”

Nicholas stepped onto the porch. His jaw fell. “What?”

It was a convincing performance, yet Charles wasn’t sure, and wasn’t taking any chances. He waved inside. “The front door was left unbolted.”

Nicholas looked at the double doors, both standing wide. “I…I left them shut when I went out.”

“Shut, but not bolted?”

“Well, no…I had to get back inside.”

“Where have you been?”

“Out.” Apparently stunned, he waved vaguely toward the gardens. “I couldn’t sleep-I went for a walk…” Suddenly, he focused on Charles’s face. “Good God! Is Penny all right?”

Charles almost believed him; his horrified expression appeared very real. “Yes.” He paused, then added, “I was with her.” He started back into the house. Still apparently in shock, Nicholas trailed after him.

Hauling one huge door shut, Charles added, distinctly grim as he thought things through, “Just as well.”

Nicholas closed the other door; he stood back as Charles threw the bolts. “We’d better check the other doors, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Charles did, confirming that the other doors and windows on the ground floor were secure. Not that that meant much; any trained operative could find a way in, and he was sure, now, of the caliber of the enemy.

Nicholas trailed behind him, watching but not volunteering, also just as well. Aside from the fact Charles knew the house better than he did, Charles wouldn’t have accepted his word for anything, not even that a window was locked.

Finally, Charles climbed the stairs. Nicholas followed. Charles halted in the corridor at the stair head; Nicholas’s room was in the other wing, in the opposite direction from Penny’s.

Nicholas stepped up to the corridor; his gaze moved over Charles’s bare shoulders and chest, slid down to the knee buckles on his breeches, hanging free. Halting, he stared at Charles through the dimness, transparently making the obvious connections.

Charles simply waited.

Nicholas cleared his throat. “Ah…you said you were with Penny?”

Crouched behind her bedchamber door, her ear to the keyhole, Penny heard his question and the inference behind it.

“Damn!” She’d already sworn in both English and French at Charles for having locked her in. Panic of an unfamiliar and unprecedented sort had attacked her when she’d heard the thuds as two men-Charles and the mystery man-had gone flying down the stairs. After that, no matter how hard she’d strained her ears, she’d heard nothing. Her window gave onto the courtyard; she’d seen nothing either.

Now she listened with all her might. The door was old, solid, and thick, but so was the lock; the keyhole, with no key in it for Charles had taken it with him, was large. With her ear pressed against it, with night’s quiet prevailing through the rest of the house, she could hear their words. She had no idea where Nicholas had come from, but he and Charles were standing along the corridor, she thought near the stairs.

“Indeed.” That was Charles at his drawling worst. In the circumstances, pure provocation.

She heard an odd sound-wondered for one instant if Charles was throttling Nicholas-then realized it was Nicholas clearing his throat again.

“Ah…you mentioned you and Penny had an understanding. Am I to take it that there’ll soon be talk of a wedding?”

Behind her door, she screwed her eyes shut and swore at Nicholas. How dare he? She wasn’t his responsibility; he had no right to ask such questions, and definitely no right to prod Charles’s far-too-active conscience to life. Damn, damn, damn!

“Actually…” Charles’s drawl was getting even more dangerously pronounced. “That’s not the sort of understanding Penny and I have. Regardless, as far as I can see, whatever our understanding might be, it’s no concern of yours.”

Yes-precisely! She held her breath, listened as hard as she could. Given the tone of Charles’s last words, Nicholas would have to be witless to do anything other than climb down off his high horse and retreat.

“I see.” The words were clipped. After a moment, Nicholas added, “In that case, I’ll…no doubt see you in the morning.”

Charles said nothing; a moment later, she heard his footsteps, soft for such a large man, returning to her room.

Relief swept her; straightening and stepping back from the door, she uttered a heartfelt prayer. The last thing-the very last thing-she needed at this point was for Charles to decide that he had to marry her out of some misplaced notion of propriety.

He stopped outside her door; she heard the key slide in, turn, then he opened the door. He saw her, stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it once more. Then he turned to her; his gaze traveled her face. She drew herself up, folded her arms beneath her breasts, thankfully concealed behind the robe she’d hastily donned, and narrowed her eyes at him.

His only response was to raise a faintly resigned brow.

“Why did you lock me in?”

He cocked his head, still watching her face. “I would have thought that was obvious-so he couldn’t easily return to attack you if he slipped past me.”

“And so I couldn’t follow you.”

His lips twisted; he looked away and moved past her to the bed. “That, too.”

With a swirl of her robe, she followed him. “What if he’d come back and picked the lock-he did the first time, why not again?”

Sitting on the bed and reaching for his boots, he glanced at her. “I credited you with having enough sense to scream. I would have heard you.”

Faintly mollified-why she wasn’t sure-she humphed. She wasn’t going to even attempt to explain the sudden fear for him that had assailed her. He was used to plunging headlong into danger; she’d told herself that. But she’d never before had to stand by and wait while he did it. “Did you see who it was?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t get any clear view of him, not even height or build. He was fast. When I got downstairs the front doors were wide-open-he went through like a hare and headed straight for the shrubbery.”

“Where was Nicholas?”

He told her. “At least, that’s where he said he was.”

“Well…” She suddenly felt cold. Shrugging out of her robe, she slipped back under the covers, tugging them up to her throat, snuggling back into the lingering warmth. “We do know he hasn’t been sleeping well.”

“Indeed.” Charles had seen her shiver and followed her progress. “What we don’t know is whether he’s so on edge he decided to do something about you, and left the doors open to create a plausible story of how someone broke into the house and attacked you while you slept. He didn’t know until just now that I’ve been staying every night.”

Setting aside his boots, he stood, stripped off his breeches, then crawled over the bed to slump beside her. He looked down at her for a moment, but couldn’t read her wide eyes. Reaching for the covers, he tugged them from her grip, lifted them, and joined her beneath.

He drew her into his arms and she came. He settled her head on his shoulder; she draped one arm across his chest, spread her hand over his heart.

They didn’t immediately fall asleep, yet despite the appearance of the intruder-something they’d both almost expected and so weren’t as surprised as they might have been-there was a sense of peace between them. As if simply being together created a haven of safety and security, a connection of such fundamental rightness no intruder could shatter it.

That rightness closed around them, cocooning them. She fell asleep first. Reassured, he followed suit.

“You can’t seriously mean to keep me with you for the entire day!”

Charles turned his head, simply looked at her, then faced forward and walked on, towing her behind him up the bank to the folly. He’d given up even the pretense of leaving; this morning, he’d quit her room only to go and change, then had gone straight down to breakfast-just in case Nicholas had not got his message last night.

From the shuttered but wary look on Nicholas’s face when he’d joined him at the table, Nicholas had, indeed, got the salient facts quite clear.

Unlike certain others.

She huffed out an exasperated breath. “And anyway, why here?”

“Because I need to think, and I’d just as soon keep Nicholas under observation while I do.” They reached the folly. He didn’t pause but towed her up the steps and along to the chaise with the best view, then faced her and released her hand.

Eyes narrowing, she glared at him, then, with a swish of her skirts, sat. He sat beside her.

“Very well,” she said. “If you must think, then think about this-why did whoever it was come to my room last night? Are we sure it was the murderer?”

He stared across the lawns to the house, screened by the intervening trees. “Why would some man come to your room at…what was it? Two in the morning?”

“Just before. Hmm…but even if he is the murderer, why?”

“That’s what I need to think about.” He’d left her discussing household matters with Mrs. Figgs and had gone to speak with Canter and the grooms. “I sent a message to Dennis Gibbs this morning, asking him to get the Gallants to keep their ears and eyes open regarding our five ‘visitors to the district.’ I spoke with Norris, too. Needless to say he was horrified.”

“Mmm…but I still can’t see why this person, whoever he is, would have any interest in me, not to the extent of breaking into the house and coming to attack me in my room. Anyway, how did he know which room was mine? Had he searched all of them?”

A scenario was taking shape in his mind. “I don’t think that’s how it happened. If we develop our theory of revenge…then I think he, whoever ‘he’ is, was watching the house, possibly with a view to making a move on Nicholas, and he saw Nicholas go out, leaving the front door unbolted. He must have thanked his stars, but then he was faced with two options. He could follow Nicholas and do away with him, or he could enter the house and do away with you-and leave suspicion hanging over Nicholas’s head.”

“But why me?”

“Two reasons. First, you’re Granville’s sister-he might well see you as Granville’s surrogate for revenge. He’s punished Gimby-the next on his list would be Granville before Nicholas. On top of that, he’d reason that Nicholas would know your death was, if not directly, then indirectly on his head. As a first attack on Nicholas, attacking you would do nicely.”

“You mean this man views me as a pawn?”

Her incipient outrage had his lips quirking. He closed one hand over hers. “Strangely, some men would see it that way.”

She sniffed, but left her hand under his. After a moment, she asked, “How did he know which room was mine?”

Charles thought back. “The open window. If he’d circled the house, that would have marked that room as the most likely. Once he got to the door and found it locked, he’d have been sure.”

She shivered.

He looked at her. “He won’t come back-I can take an oath on that. He knows I’ll be there, and it’s no part of his plans to get caught.”

Penny considered, then nodded, feeling rather better, not least because it seemed Charles planned to spend all forseeable nights with her. That was reassuring, and…she wasn’t sure what the lightening of her heart meant.

They sat for a while, thoughts rambling, then saw an open carriage come rolling up the drive.

“That’s Lady Carmody.”

They watched as her ladyship was handed out and went inside. Ten minutes later, Nicholas escorted her back to her carriage. He stood watching it roll away, then returned to the house.

“A dinner or, horrors, a musicale?”

She laughed. “Not a musicale-she hates music.”

“One point in her favor.” Charles stirred, stretched. “I hope she’s already called at the Abbey.”

“Why?”

“Because I think we should ride over there.”

She remembered. “And check if Dalziel has discovered anything and sent word.”

Together they rose and headed back to the house.

“I’ll speak to Norris-we can leave Nicholas under his eye. I’m sure Nicholas will have understood the significance of last night’s intruder-given his behavior to date, he’ll most likely remain inside, in safety.”

“I’ll change into my habit-I won’t be long.”

“No rush. We can let Filchett and Mrs. Slattery feed us-there’s no reason we need return here until dinnertime.”