Saint's Devils: Devil In My Arms Part 6

"Society," she answered immediately. "Morals, ethics."

He waved his hand as if swatting away gnats. "Society means nothing. It is a human construct and can be manipulated as such. There are pa.s.sionate affairs being conducted by numerous members of the ton, and they all turn a blind eye to it. You worry needlessly. As for morals and ethics, whose? You are a widow in society's eyes. It is accepted that widows may on occasion take a lover."

"I am married," she reminded him as she finally turned her back to the open window.

"No, you are not," he argued, letting his temper get the best of him. He stood and faced her. "You ran away from him, the ultimate defiance. You let him declare you dead. You do not exist to him, or to the world as a married woman anymore. I know your heart is not engaged there. You are free in every way. Don't tell me you don't feel that way. I know you do."

She sighed as she wrapped her arms around herself. "You are right, of course. Don't you tire of always being right?"

"No." He walked up to her and lightly placed his hands on her upper arms. "Tell me, Eleanor. Tell me why you ran."

"Because he was killing me."

Involuntarily, his hands tightened on her arms, but she seemed not to notice. "It wasn't just the deprivations. He was killing the essence of me, of who I am. He was killing Eleanor and turning her into an empty sh.e.l.l. And I couldn't let him do that. I wouldn't. And so I ran. It wasn't the first time, and if I had failed again, I would have tried over and over until he either killed me in truth, or I succeeded."

He had so many questions that he had to take a moment to sort them out by priority. He finally settled on, "Deprivations?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at him. She didn't move away and he didn't remove his hands from her arms. "His favorite form of punishment."

"Eleanor," he said, crus.h.i.+ng his anger before it could overwhelm him. He'd indulge that later. "How many times did you try to run away?" he asked, moving on to his next question.

"Three times," she answered. "The first time I had no plan, nowhere to go, just a desire to get away. It wasn't enough. I was gone barely three hours before I was found and dragged back."

"The second time?" he asked.

"I ran to Harry's," she said. "Or, more correctly, to Mercer's. He sent me back. Never even let me see Harry or the baby. Harry says she didn't know I was ever there."

"So close," he murmured.

"Yes." She didn't sound the least perturbed by their conversation. He supposed she'd had years to be angry. "And the third ... well, this is the third. Success." She smiled, but there was more pain behind it than joy.

Hil wrapped his arms around her and held her as he had last night, when she had melted into him. He understood her reaction now. Had any man ever held her thus? He wished there had been hundreds, thousands before him who had, rather than none. He wished she'd known nothing but care and pa.s.sion instead of pain and hate. Because it was hate. No man treats a woman like that if there is love between them. "Why?" he asked.

"Why?" Eleanor sounded confused as she stood in his embrace, her arms still wrapped around herself. She was accepting his warmth, but still closing him out. He didn't want that. But he had to proceed as she wished.

"Why did he hate you?"

She laughed and laid her head against his shoulder. He felt as if he'd won a great prize. "Because he is a stupid, graceless baboon, that's why. He knew I was smarter than he was. That I was born above him and raised a lady, and he didn't deserve me. And it ate at him. He hated to hear me speak, because my speech reminded him of his lowly origins. He hated my conversation, because he couldn't converse on intelligent subjects. He hated the very sight of me when ..." She paused and he waited. "When it was discovered that I was barren. The only reason he married me, you see, was to have children that would be considered gentry. My father sold me to him so he could enter society, and create a dynasty or some such rot. He was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Yes. Yes, he was." Hil really didn't know what else to say on the subject. He didn't tell her that eventually, sometime in the future when he wouldn't be expecting it, and couldn't tie it to Eleanor, Hil would ruin him. He had men watching Enderby, just as he had them watching Eleanor, and soon he'd have enough information to do it. He did have Prinny's ear, after all. What was one more favor owed?

"What if he discovers I'm alive?" she whispered. Hil held her tighter. "We don't know whose body he produced at the inquest, or how he came by it. Now he has remarried and rumor says a child is on the way. If he finds me, I am all that stands between him and his new life. I hate to put Harry and Roger and the children in the middle of this, but I have nowhere else to go. The authorities already believe me dead. What is there to stop him from making that lie a reality?"

"Me." He rubbed her arms. She seemed to like that last night. She snuggled closer and uncrossed her arms, resting her palms on his chest. Progress. But he wasn't going to take advantage, not this morning. Not ever. It was obvious she was skittish of men and intimacy. Who could blame her? She needed time to adjust to the idea. So he would give her time. "He can't get to you, Eleanor," he said softly. "I won't let him. I am not without connections. Even if he tried to get you back, I'd prevent it. You must trust me on this." He took a deep breath and confessed, "I have men watching the house. Watching you, actually. For your protection. Until we know what Enderby is going to do."

"You do?" she asked incredulously. "But, why?"

"You must know that I want you," he said, careful to keep a neutral tone.

"I do have a rudimentary knowledge of physiology and s.e.xual relations," she told him wryly. "I did figure that out."

He smiled at her sarcasm. She couldn't be kept down for long, could she? "Good." He stopped rubbing her arms and pushed her away just a bit, so he could look into her face. She didn't appear to be confused or upset, just curious. There was something else in her eyes he couldn't read. He'd never had his ability to read people disappear so often as it had recently with Eleanor. "I'll let you ruminate on that knowledge for a while. But think about this as well. If you were with me, I could protect you even better. I would." He patted her arm and stepped around her and headed for the door. Before he opened it, he looked back. She was still just staring at him, as inscrutable as ever. "I am going to discover the real ident.i.ty of the late Eleanor Enderby. You are correct. Until we know who his dead body was and how he got it, he has the advantage. But until then ... I want you and I can protect you. When you are ready to discuss it, please let me know."

"Discuss it?" she replied, the humor in her voice rea.s.suring. "I believe you showed me your version of conversation last night."

"And so I did," he said, smiling as he opened the door. "Imagine my delight when I discovered what a brilliant conversationalist you are, as well. A match for me in every way."

Her laughter followed him out the door.

Chapter Seven.

It had been two weeks since he'd last spoken to her. In that time he'd fretted, lost sleep, snapped at his young houseguest, Wiley, and in general had become a thoroughly unlikeable individual. The worst part was, he was offended. He'd never had a woman resist his advances. Was he getting old at only twenty-nine? Rude? Unappealing in some way? He didn't think so. Ladies young and old were still seeking his attentions in every walk of life. Why, he could barely leave the house without a flurry of propositions. And yet she resisted. For two weeks.

Perhaps she wasn't ready for an affair. She'd been through some rather traumatic events in the last few months. He should be protecting her, not propositioning her. As a matter of fact, he was really quite a cad to even be forcing such a decision on her. He should give up. Walk away. The very idea, however, made him feel slightly ill. So much for chivalry.

He'd been working on several inquiries, including trying to discover the ident.i.ty of Enderby's body, to no avail. No one had died in the vicinity of Enderby's lodgings around the time he'd located 'Eleanor,' and no one had gone missing. If he had procured the body elsewhere, Hil may not be able to trace it. London had young women of the streets dying every day, women with no families or surnames or people to care if they were carted away and renamed for an inquest. He'd had no developments to report, and no reason to go and see her. And so he waited, living on news of her from the men guarding her.

"Brooding again?" Wiley asked as he sauntered into Hil's study. "Let me get a whiskey before you answer so I can tolerate you."

It was late in the evening. Hil hadn't been expecting him to return. He'd been gone for days. He looked over the lip of his gla.s.s to glare at him. "I do not brood." He watched as Wiley poured a drink. The young man he'd taken in nearly two years ago had grown considerably. He was nineteen now, soon to be twenty. His speech was that of a gentleman. He'd learned to ape the speech patterns at first, but now it came effortlessly to him. His vernacular was still a problem, however. But he looked clean, his cinnamon hair gleaming in the candlelight, and he looked the part of the gentleman, too, in his subdued buckskins and brown coat and waistcoat. No padding was required for those shoulders. Hil knew because, just last week, Wiley had thoroughly trounced him at Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon. He'd grown tall and strong on a steady diet and Hil's good graces. With their similar coloring and Wiley's new manners, they had been mistaken for brothers more than once in the last few months.

"Stuff it," Wiley said with a snort. "You brood like a priest at a funeral ma.s.s."

"When do you ever go to ma.s.s?"

"Never, if I can help it." Wiley sat down across from Hil and unapologetically sipped from his full tumbler.

"Where have you been the last two days?" Hil asked suspiciously. "No one could find you."

"Never mind that," he answered dismissively. "Tell old Wiley what's got you so blue."

"Nothing." Hil winced when he heard his own temperamental tone. "I am simply having trouble with the Goode case."

"Fellow who claims the tinker he saw was Napoleon?" Wiley asked.

"No," Hil sighed. "You know I did not agree to help him. He was quite mad."

Wiley nodded and winked. "Course not. Napoleon's dead isn't he?" He winked again. "Not as if they buried somebody else in his place and the old Frenchy's living it up somewhere, now is it?"

"Why are you winking? Do you have something in your eye? Certainly you don't believe that rubbish."

"And why not?" Wiley asked defensively. "Seems to me like a man of his stature could find a devoted follower to take his place in the dirt so he could go free. Happens all the time, you know. Just look at Elizabeth Fairchild."

Hil shook his head. "I thought educating you would banish foolish notions. I was clearly wrong. And Eleanor did not pay someone to take her place in the dirt. Her despicable husband produced a strange body and claimed it was her while she was in hiding. From him. It is hardly the same."

"Eleanor, is it? Well, point taken," Wiley conceded. "What other cases have we got?"

"We? If I remember correctly, you have been among the missing for the last two days. I was ready to have them drag the Thames for your lifeless body."

"Aw," Wiley said with a grin. "I knew you cared."

"I was hoping to get rid of all your finery. Your extensive wardrobe is taking over the apartments."

"You introduced me to the tailor," Wiley said with a sad expression and a shake of his head. "Can't cry foul now."

"Should I be expecting the authorities again? I told you that I will no longer vouch for you when they come asking about your more nefarious activities."

"I'm cutting back on nefarious activities," Wiley announced. "Bad for a man's health."

"So you were hiding from another jealous husband."

"Just so," Wiley said with yet another wink and a tweak of his nose. "Now, the case."

"Young Mr. Goode says that his grandmother always claimed to have had a love affair with Tsar Alexander, and that she had a stack of love letters to prove it. She recently died, and upon her deathbed confessed that her son, his father, was Alexander's son. He needs the letters to prove his birthright."

"Will it make him tsar?" Wiley asked with a calculated expression.

"No," Hil a.s.sured him firmly. "But I believe it will extract enough money from Alexander to pay the duns."

Wiley frowned. "Why would you take a case like that?"

Hil shrugged. "Why not? I'd like to know if she actually had an affair with him. I like to know things like that. Secrets, Wiley. Secrets can save a man if he knows how to use them."

"Use them?" Wiley asked, leaning back and taking a drink.

"Knowing when to keep them, when to tell them, when to bargain with them," Hil said. He stared into the amber liquid in his gla.s.s, thinking about all the secrets he knew and how some of them had changed his life.

"You really are in a dark place tonight," Wiley told him. He stood up and put his tumbler on the drink tray. "Too dark for me. Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow," he trilled. "Tomorrow we'll find the old lady's love letters. Tonight is for sleeping. Alone, unfortunately."

Hil said nothing as Wiley left him alone with his thoughts. Was he brooding? He supposed so. He thought the ladies liked that. Perhaps he should pen a note to Eleanor and let her know he was brooding. She might show up to watch.

With a sigh, he stood up and extinguished the light. It was time he went to bed as well. A man could only brood for so long before he needed rest in order to do it again the next day.

Hil woke up at the sound of knocking on the front door. It wasn't the first time he'd been awoken in the middle of the night in such a fas.h.i.+on, and it wouldn't be the last. His hobby of investigation was well-known, and the night was the chessboard for many fatal games. More than one man or woman had come knocking on his door in the dark of night asking his help. He slid out of bed and pulled on his banyan, which he'd tossed aside when he climbed into bed. The gold embroidery on the red silk caught the moonlight creeping in through his window. It was after midnight, judging by the moon's location. He lit a candle and pulled on his pants before walking out into the hallway and leaning over the banister.

"Who is it, Jeffers?" he asked his night footman below.

"Lady here to see you, sir," Jeffers called quietly.

"It is I, Sir Hilary."

Eleanor's voice as it floated up from the shadowed entry caused the last vestiges of sleep to fall away. "Come up, my dear," he said.

Jeffers discreetly backed away and took up his position in a chair near the door. Eleanor hesitated, but then she strode to the stairs with purposeful steps and mounted them. When she reached the top she paused, looking down the hallway. "Which room?" she asked, pulling off one of her gloves. She wore a large black cloak, with the hood pulled over her hair.

He kept one hand in the pocket of his banyan, and with a wave of the other, indicated his bedroom door. She nodded and preceded him to his room. He opened the door and when she entered, she immediately turned to face him. He liked how she looked there, the dark red curtains adorning the window framing her, the candle on the table beside her creating a halo of light over her head. The large four-poster bed to their right was a decadent and erotic background, with its tousled, blue silk sheets. He stood at the open door, not sure what was required of him, fighting his own inclinations. "Close it," she said firmly. With relief, he did.

She removed the hood with a flourish. Her cropped curls were a mess. "I have come," she said. He waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming.

"So I see," he replied, hoping to encourage more words. He didn't wish to make a.s.sumptions that would land him in a possible misunderstanding. He was trying to be chivalrous, d.a.m.n it, and it was killing him.

"Don't be a ninny," she said, tossing her glove onto the dresser to her right. "I have come to have an affair with you. It was all very havey-cavey, I must say. Sneaking out of Harry and Roger's in the dead of night and making my way over here." She pointed at the window. "I do not like being closed in. Would you be so kind as to open the window?" Her hand was shaking.

Hil was instantly alarmed. "You came here by yourself? Madam, that is the height of foolishness," he admonished as he walked over and pulled the curtain aside to open the window slightly. A breeze ruffled the curtain and he saw her shoulders relax, so he left the curtain open just a bit, so she could see the open window behind it. He could make an educated guess about her fear of closed doors, one which involved the deprivations forced on her by her husband.

"Yes, it is. Saville Street is too far to walk to from Manchester Square. I had to take a hackney, which is difficult to find at this time of night. You shall have to arrange to have me back there before morning. I don't wish to have to endure another journey like this one. By the way, I told your man to pay the driver. And I didn't see any sign of these supposed guards you've posted to protect me."

"I could throttle you," Hil said through clenched teeth. Tomorrow he was going to make d.a.m.n sure that her bodyguards had been no more than two steps behind her the whole way. "Two weeks of perfectly respectable afternoons you could have come calling or sent a note, and yet you decide it best to hie yourself over here at this unG.o.dly hour. What, pray tell, were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," she told him. "I couldn't sleep for thinking about you again, and I was completely fed up with it. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in two weeks." She pointed at him with her eyes narrowed. "I blame you."

"Me?" Hil said incredulously. "Madam, you were well aware that I was leaving the decision in your hands. That it took you two weeks to make it is not in any way my fault."

"I am not happy about this," she said as she pulled at her other glove with angry tugs on each finger. "This is inconvenient to say the least. I am on the run from a vile husband, believed dead by the authorities, and trying to maintain a discreet presence here in London. And yet you have made it so that I cannot get a decent night's sleep for thinking of carnal relations with you."

Hil's heart was racing. He would blame their argument if he didn't know d.a.m.n well he'd been thinking the same things for two weeks. "Madam, I implore you. Do not speak of carnal relations unless we are to have them. I am only a man, and near broken already."

"Ha." Her laughter was disbelieving. "Broken indeed. You were sound asleep when I knocked. Admit it."

"True. But I was dreaming of you."

"Liar." Her tone was softer as she finally pulled her glove off and gently tossed it beside the other one. He moved to stand in front of her and took her bare hands in his. She was still shaking.

"It's true." He kissed one palm and then the other. "I have dreamed of this every night for the last two weeks. What took you so long?"

"I can be quite stubborn," she said breathlessly, her fingers curving over her palms protectively.

Hil smiled. "As can I."

"And fearful," she whispered. "I can't ... this must remain a secret, Sir Hilary."

"Hilary," he interrupted to correct her.

"Hilary," she said, and he had to catch his breath at the intimacy of it. What a silly fool he was for her.

"There are many obvious reasons why we mustn't flaunt our affair. Surely you can see that?" she asked hopefully.

He was affronted. "As a gentleman, I would never impugn your reputation in any way. Your wishes are, naturally, paramount in this situation. I, too, loathe the idea of society gossiping about us behind their fans."