The Scandals Of An Innocent

hand rested along the back of the seat, almost, but not quite, touching her shoulder.

“You know, don’t you!” she burst out, wishing that she did not sound quite so gauche but somehow feeling that fifteen years of town bronze had deserted her in an instant.

“Yes,” Gaines said slowly. “I do.”

“I had to do it.” Celia met his eyes. “We need the money and Mama has no idea how to economize. Not really. Oh, she thinks she is frightfully good at saving a little here and there but there is never enough to meet the bills and so…” Her voice trailed away. “I know no one could possibly approve-”

“Approve?” Gaines said. There was a spark of laughter deep in his gray eyes. “I should rather think not, Lady Celia. You are a bishop’s daughter.”

Celia spread her hands appealingly. “But don’t you see that I had no choice? I had to think of something for which I had a talent-”

“And you came up with this?” There was unflattering surprise in Frank Gaines’s tone and it stiffened Celia’s spine.

“Yes,” she snapped. “I did. You may think it surprising, Mr. Gaines, but I assure you I am very good at it!”

“I do not doubt that.” Frank Gaines sounded unruffled. “My inquiries show me that you make a good income, but what puzzles me…” He paused, a slight frown on his brow as he looked at her. Celia’s heart was beating very fast. She did not quite understand why it was important to have this man’s respect, and yet it had been from the first. She had met so many men over the long years of the London Season. She was not a heiress, nor was she especially good-looking, and she had always had decided opinions, so she had never found a particular gentleman who was her match, and perversely it would have to be Frank Gaines who had engaged her regard. She sighed in exasperation. She and her brother Miles, both so determined not to love…They had more in common than Miles had ever realized.

“What puzzles you…” she prompted, as Frank Gaines seemed in no hurry to expand on his thoughts but merely sat pinning her in that observant gray gaze, like a butterfly spread wide beneath his inquiring eyes.

“Is where you get your ideas from,” Gaines said. “I have read some of your work, Lady Celia. Indeed, I went specially to purchase your books when I discovered your secret. They were very-” a smile curved his lips “-very engrossing indeed.”

“I have some experience,” Celia snapped, blushing, “and I have observation and imagination.”

“Indeed, you must have.”

The tea arrived. Neither of them seemed inclined to drink any of it. There was a silence between them. Celia fidgeted with her spoon and with her gloves and with the edge of her cloak. Eventually she looked up to see that Gaines was still watching her with that unfathomable look. He seemed to have moved infinitesimally closer to her along the bench. His hand was touching her shoulder now in the lightest and most casual of gestures.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she snapped, “I need to know if you are going to tell anyone!”

Gaines stretched a little. He looked like a lazy cat, all sleek muscle and with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“I see no reason why I should,” he said slowly. “After all, it is not relevant to the inquiries I am making on behalf of Miss Lister.”

Celia felt weak with relief. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“But,” Gaines continued, “I confess I would like something in return.”

Celia’s gaze snapped up to his and saw the amusement in his face. Her heart started to thud again, long slow beats that made her whole body quiver.

“Are you seeking to blackmail me?” she demanded.

“Of course not.” His voice was soothing. “Nothing could be further from my mind. I merely thought that I might…help you? Provide some inspiration, perhaps?”

Celia swallowed convulsively. “I do not believe I need to trouble you on that.”

His hand brushed her sleeve. Celia shivered. “It would be no trouble.”

Celia sat there, frozen, her tea cooling on the table in front of her. Could she do it? She was astonished to realize quite how tempted she was. To learn, to explore…She bit her lip. Frank Gaines said nothing to either persuade her or hurry her, but there was something in his bright gaze that captured her and made her heart race.

“Very well,” she whispered, feeling the excitement make her blood sing even as she marveled at her own audacity, “but where can we do it? No one must guess…”

He shifted a little. “Trust me. I know somewhere.” He rose to his feet and proffered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

Celia stared at him. “Now?”

“Why not?” He smiled at her. “You did not want that tea, did you?”

“No, I…” Celia paused, light-headed at the speed at which everything had happened. “Very well,” she repeated. She took his arm. Her fingers shook slightly as they rested on his sleeve. He covered them with his hand in a gesture that half reassured, half disturbed her.

“You are nervous?”

“Of course.”

He laughed. “Surely you need not be. As you have said, you have some experience and I hope to add greatly to your store.” He raised her hand to his lips. “My very dear Lady Celia…Or perhaps I should call you Celia, since we are to become so much better acquainted?”

She did not correct him. They went out into the snow and soon the whirling flakes had covered their tracks.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MILES WAS IN A THOROUGHLY bad mood by the time he returned to Spring House that evening. When he had called earlier in the day it was to be told that Alice was sleeping and so he had had several hours in which to cool his heels and mull over whether or not Nat and Dexter could possibly be right in their suggestion that Alice herself had procured a marksman to kill him. He knew that no one had a better motive. He knew that he should probably confront Alice about it. He knew he did not want to believe it. The thought pained him so much that he could hardly bear it and he did not understand why.

He knew he deserved it.

He had seen plenty of blackmailers come to an unpleasant end as a result of their crimes, and he had never had an ounce of sympathy for them.

He knocked impatiently on the door of Spring House just as dusk was falling. The snow clouds had gone and the night was crisp and cold, with a sickle moon rising in the deep blue of the evening sky. When Marigold answered the door he hurried inside.

“Is Miss Lister awake?” he demanded.

The maid bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Miss Lister is not in the house, my lord. She said that she needed fresh air and would take a turn in the gardens-”

“What?” Miles had been in the act of divesting himself of his coat but now he froze. Surely Alice could not have been foolish enough to go out alone?

Or confident enough that she was safe, a voice whispered in his mind, because she knew she was not the murderer’s target…

Swearing, Miles dragged his coat on again, ran out the door and down the front steps two at a time. In the gardens, Marigold had said. And darkness was falling, which would provide perfect cover for an assassin…

The old walled garden was empty. So was the parterre, its neat box hedges swathed in a blanket of pristine snow. A blackbird sped from his path with a startled squawk. He scanned the lawns but they were empty, too, turning misty in the twilight. And then he saw a figure walking under the gnarled branches of the orchard and let his breath out on a sigh that was half relief, half fury. He ran.

“What the hell are you doing out here on your own?”