Chapter Seven

C HAPTER S EVEN

One day Lady Long-Nose went riding with Sabinus. They found a glade deep in the forest and dismounted there for a picnic.

“I have a secret to tell you,” Sabinus said. “I am in love with the most wonderful woman in the world.”

Lady Long-Nose’s heart soared up high into the sky with joy.…

—From Lady Long-Nose

The sky was turning that pinky-gray of predawn by the time Julian made his way back to the White Horse.

He felt as if he’d been awake for days, his very bones weary. He felt betrayed by his sisters, by Hawthorne, goddamn it, by Lady Elspeth. It was the last that stuck in his craw. He’d drawn closer to her without realizing it, and to find she’d gone behind his back…

He didn’t notice the man standing in a shadowed doorway until Julian was almost on him.

The man stepped out, and Julian drew his pistol.

The stranger raised his hands immediately. “All right, all right. Ye needn’t get nasty. I’d just like a word, m’lord.”

Julian quickly glanced around. Was this some sort of trap? He didn’t see anyone else in their vicinity, but he kept a close watch. “I’m not a lord.”

“No?” The man had a Scottish accent. “Thought you’d be a lord, being the heir to a dukedom and all.”

“Who are you?” Julian snapped, raising his gun.

“Peg McDonald’s son.” The stranger’s voice was suddenly serious.

“Ah.” Julian felt an ache beginning behind his left eye. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like me ma back, but I reckon not even a high and mighty duke’s heir like yerself can do such a thing.” Peg’s son looked bitter. “Told her she had to get out of the duke’s service, but she was too afraid of what he’d do. Well, he had her killed anyway, didn’t he?” His head turned in the barely lit street, his voice sharpening. “’Cause of you.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Julian said, lowering his pistol.

“Thanks much,” the other man said dryly. “Bit late, ain’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Julian answered wearily. “I had offered to bring her to my country estate.”

“He could’ve had her killed there.” The man sighed. “He could’ve had her killed anywhere. That’s the thing about you lords and ladies—we’re worms under your diamond-buckled shoes. If you crush us or don’t, doesn’t matter to you. Most of the time you don’t even notice.” Peg’s son took a step closer, and his face came into the light. He was Julian’s age, a big man, his hands square and heavy. “Did you even think of Ma as anything but a servant? Did you know she was a mother? A grandmother?”

“No, I did not. Again, I’m sorry.” Julian took a breath. “What’s your name?”

The other man shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, m’lord. I’m here for one reason. Ma once told me that yer mother wrote in a small printed book as she lay dying, in the blank spaces at the sides. Yer mam would hide the book when a servant came into her rooms, but me ma knew what she did. That book was in the crate of books sent to yer manor—Adders, ain’t it?”

Julian’s heart nearly stopped. The information he’d wanted from Peg was here, laid before him almost as an afterthought. “Why are you telling me this?”

Peg’s son grinned, his teeth glinting in the lantern light. “’Cause me ma said that if there was ever a way to bring the duke down, it was in that there book yer mother kept. I want you to end him, the Duke of Windemere. I want him to bleed like the rest of us worms.”

That was highly unlikely. In theory, a duke could be brought before Parliament, but it was exceedingly rare.

But if Julian’s mother had known something about Augustus, something secret, and if she’d written it in that book, well then, perhaps Julian could finally get the upper hand over the duke.

Peg’s son turned as if to walk away.

“Wait,” Julian said urgently. “You’re in danger, too, if my uncle suspects your mother told you this.”

“Aye,” the other man said. “That’s why I’m bound for the American Colonies. They say men are more equal there.” He snorted. “Fairy tales, I have no doubt, but at least it’s not England.”

With that he walked away.

Julian stared after him before peering around again to make sure there was no one else about to step into his path.

Then he dropped his pistol back in his pocket and strode to the White Horse.

He felt suddenly awake, his mind whirring as he made plans. It was past time he returned to Adders Hall—but first he needed to provide a distraction.

The inn was bustling as Julian walked through the main room. Some travelers half dozed over tankards of small beer, while others hurried to the waiting coach. Ostlers shouted outside, and maids called orders to the kitchen as they ran to feed hungry patrons.

Julian took the stairs two at a time, impatiently darting around those slower than he. There was light beneath the door to the room he shared with Quinn when he made it.

A soft rap on the door, and Quinn peered out. “Well?”

Julian pushed past him and into the room, jerking his head at the door.

Quinn closed it obediently before returning to packing a satchel. Vanderberg was in the corner, rummaging among Julian’s clothes, looking harried.

Julian nodded, sitting at the table to pour himself a glass of wine. “Hawthorne and I finalized the plan.”

“And?”

“He’ll be away with Messalina later this morning,” Julian answered. “Bound for Newcastle. Apparently he has mines there.” He shrugged. “If he can combine this with business, so much the better.”

The plan was to confuse Augustus as to where Lucretia might’ve escaped to. With Newcastle’s busy port, the route to the city was one of many that Lucretia might’ve taken if she’d fled abroad.

Julian took a sip of the wine and looked at Quinn. “Did you find a girl to play the part?”

Vanderberg dropped something with an exclamation.

“Yes,” Quinn gestured to the floor. “A French lass in the inn below. She wants to return home. She’s more than happy to share a carriage with me in return for free transport to Dover.”

Julian nodded. “Good. I’ll leave this afternoon bound for Bristol. One of Hawthorne’s maids has family there and is glad to have a month’s leave to visit them. I’ve procured a horse for the maid to ride. I’ll take Octavia and then ride her to Adders to spend the fortnight afterwards.”

“Shall I come with you, sir?” Vanderberg asked. He’d packed a soft bag for Julian to travel with.

“No,” Julian replied. “I’m not sure I’ll even need you at Adders.” He looked at Quinn. “What about you?”

His brother grimaced. “I’ll stay in Dover for a bit—maybe a week—before I return to London with the carriage. It’ll cost a bit to stable the horses and put up the drivers while I’m in Dover.”

Julian shook his head. “Can’t be helped. Hawthorne and Messalina will be at least a month in Newcastle. Our times are staggered both leaving London and returning. Hopefully, it’ll put Augustus off the scent long enough to let Lucretia escape.”

“What about Mulgrave?” Quinn asked.

“What about him?” Julian returned sharply.

Quinn shrugged. “He doesn’t strike me as a man to give up easily.”

Julian nodded. “You think he’ll pursue Lucretia himself.”

“From all I’ve heard of him?” Quinn looked grim. “I think he’ll be hot on her trail.”

Julian knocked back the rest of his wine. “Then we’ll have to hope our ruse will fool Mulgrave as well.”

Two days later, Elspeth pulled her hood more closely about her face as she trudged through mud. Deep, disgustingly sucking mud. Poor Plum, trotting gamely at her side, was covered to his chest in the thick stuff.

Her woolen cape was completely soaked through from a downpour that had started several hours ago. Thankfully, the rain had slowed to a trickle, but the damage was already done. Her sturdy worsted wool dress was damp as well, and both of her feet were swimming in icy water inside her boots.

Really, it had been a most trying afternoon. She’d arrived in Dydle, the town nearest to Adders Hall, at a bit after one of the clock. The small inn where the coach stopped offered a lovely pork pie for luncheon, and she’d split one with Plum. Thus braced, she’d ventured forth to find a means of travel to Adders Hall… only to discover that there simply wasn’t any. Horses were rare, and what carts there were—mainly of an agricultural nature—were in use. It seemed the people of Dydle preferred to walk.

As it happened, Elspeth was quite used to walking. Growing up in the Wise Women’s compound, she and her sisters had shared a horse, an old gelding named Sampson who was usually commandeered by Freya or Caitriona, leaving Elspeth to wander the Scottish hills on foot.

Those meanderings had been mostly in sunny weather and of an easy length—perhaps a mile or two. This journey to Adders was only six miles but was hampered by the foulest of weather. The rain had started before Elspeth had lost sight of Dydle and had progressed to a downpour within minutes. The dirt road she was on had rapidly degraded into a stream of sticky, slippery mud. Her skirts were fouled to the knee, her hair dripped into her face, and each step was a labor, with her boots turned into misshapen mud balls.

She felt as if she’d been trudging along for hours—maybe days. The fields that had bracketed the lane had turned to a wood, making everything seem gloomy. Elspeth looked ahead, trying to see through the rain. Was there an opening in the line of trees up ahead at the right? She couldn’t quite see. And then she stumbled, going down to her knees in the muck.

Plum came to lick her face as if in commiseration.

“Thank you.” Elspeth stroked the dog and then dragged herself to her feet. It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen, but her toes and her fingers were becoming numb, her skirts heavy with mud, weighing her down. She gasped and swiped the rain out of her eyes, watching the nearing turn.

Oh, thank Goddess! Crooked iron gates stood open where a carriage track broke off from the lane. Elspeth wrinkled her nose. She’d imagined a grand aristocratic estate. But the innkeeper had assured her that the big black posts were the sign of Adders Hall.

She sighed and turned into the track. The trees loomed closer, tall and meeting over her head. If this didn’t lead to Adders, then she’d have to retrace her steps, but it seemed unlikely that there would be two such gates on the lane.

The track was rutted, and the puddles were therefore deceptively deep. Elspeth discovered this fact when her boot plunged into one, the water coming up to her calf. She winced and determinedly kept going.

Around a tall beech, the wood ended abruptly to reveal a field spread out before her, cows huddled under sparse trees. Did Mr. Greycourt keep cattle? Farther on, she could see a gray building, and the sight heartened her.

It took another half hour to travel to the steps of what must be Adders Hall, though it wasn’t at all as she’d imagined. For one, it was only a little bigger than a country squire’s manor. Adders was built of worn gray stone, and the front portico had lovely Corinthian columns, but she could see two windows boarded up on the ground floor and another five on the upper floor, all to her left. The drive had once been properly graveled, but now tall weeds sulked in the rain.

Lifting her heavy skirts, Elspeth mounted the steps and knocked.

Then waited.

And waited some more.

She shifted from foot to foot. The minute she’d stopped walking, her toes had begun to freeze. Plum had grown bored and was sniffing the tall grass around the steps.

Another knock.

There must be someone inside—she’d seen smoke from one of the chimneys.

She had almost decided on going around to the back when the door was pulled open with a creak.

Before her stood a broad woman somewhere in her forties wearing a well-used apron. “Aye?”

Elspeth smiled as brightly as she could with rain dripping in her face. “Is this Adders Hall?”

“Might be.” The woman looked at her suspiciously. “Who be asking?”

“Lady Elspeth de Moray.”

The other woman gave her a slow inspection, from her muddy skirts to her sodden hood. She narrowed her eyes when she got to Plum. “That so?”

“Indeed,” Elspeth answered cheerily. “I’m a friend of Mr. Greycourt’s sisters, Messalina and Lucretia. They’ve told me so much about the library at Adders. I’m a bit zealous about books and libraries,” she confided earnestly. “And since I happened to be in the neighborhood, I thought I’d pop in to look it over.”

Her words seemed to have engendered a dead silence, broken only by the sound of trickling water from the eves above.

The woman stared at Elspeth, her face expressionless.

Then she inhaled. “Well then, best come in, hadn’t ’e?”

It took Julian three days to make it to Adders Hall from Bristol. The roads were impassible to carriages, either flooded or washed away entirely or sunken into a morass of mud. He’d had to guide Octavia and the horse tied behind her around blockages again and again, so by the time he arrived at Adders, he was chilled and tired.

Julian rode around back of the hall, jumping down from the mare only when they made the stable.

Or what was left of the stable.

Adders Hall had originally been a hunting lodge—a place to play for the richest of aristocrats on his mother’s side of the family. Therefore, the stable was a large building, built of stone, with many stalls and room above for the grooms’ quarters.

Except there weren’t any grooms.

Julian led Octavia and the spare gelding into the side of the stable still standing—the other half having fallen down sometime before he’d inherited the property. He took off both horses’ saddles himself, rubbing them down briskly so they wouldn’t catch a chill. He forked fresh hay into their stalls and gave each a bucketful of mixed oats and barley.

Then he clutched his wet tricorne to his head and ran to the back of the house.

God’s balls, he was in need of rest.

The special kind of rest that he partook of only at Adders.

He banged on the kitchen door and was let in by Mrs. McBride, looking reddened and sweating from her cooking.

“Lord bless you, Mr. Greycourt,” that lady exclaimed at the sight of him. “Whatever are you doing out in a storm like this?”

“Riding home, Mrs. McBride,” Julian answered as he took off his dripping hat and went to the hearth to warm his hands. “Has she arrived?”

“Sir?”

“The woman,” Julian snapped. He shouldn’t be so impatient with Mrs. McBride—she’d served Adders for decades—but he felt his control on the point of breaking. “Did she make it through the lanes?”

Mrs. McBride narrowed her eyes at his tone, but all she said was, “She’s in the library.”

An odd place to show a hired woman, but he didn’t care. “Thank you,” Julian replied, throwing off his greatcoat and exiting the kitchens. He needed a bath and a change of clothes, but the knowledge that his surcease was within his grasp drove him to the library.

He turned one corner and then another, rushing through his own house like a madman. Thank God there was no one to see his frenzy. If he knew, Augustus would have Julian by the neck.

Julian swept that dire thought from his mind and pushed the library door open.

Inside, the old room was dim, the high windows across from the door letting in little light from the clouds without. One end had a fireplace, though, and it was lit, a roaring fire burning there. Julian started for the hearth, making for the figure he could see sitting in a chair before the fire, her back to him.

Julian was within a couple of steps when a short, dark form rose and commenced barking at him. He halted midstride, staring at the dog before him. The animal looked strangely familiar. Hadn’t he seen such a dog with…

The woman rose from her chair and turned, metamorphosing from a prostitute into Lady Elspeth de Moray.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Julian yelled to be heard above the dog’s barking.

The animal abruptly stopped, looking uncertain.

Elspeth licked her lips, her usual sunny smile wavering. “Mr. Greycourt. Ah. Well, it’s quite a story. You see, I—”

“No.” He cut across her ruthlessly. “I don’t want to hear your damned lies. Do you truly think me so half-witted?” He screwed his eyes shut. Was she spying for Augustus? Did it matter? He couldn’t think. “Where is she?”

He snapped his eyes open in time to see her wary uncertainty.

“Who?”

“The woman,” he growled through gritted teeth. “The girl who was supposed to be here. Where did you put her?”

“I don’t…” Her brows knit and then cleared again, her expression very near to embarrassed. “Oh. You have a—a sweetheart you meant to meet here?”

He wanted to scream. To let all his urges and feelings roll out of him and thrash on the floor before her. “ No. Not a sweetheart. A whore.”

Silence enveloped the library as she stared at him, appearing dumbstruck.

“God damn it!” He whirled to go to the door. Perhaps she waited for him in his bedroom. A bold move, considering he rarely let the hired women in his house, and never in his bedroom, but he wouldn’t quibble.

“Wait,” she called from behind him, as if he would stop. “There’s no whore here.”

He turned. “What?”

She should’ve been frightened at his wild mood. She should’ve been disgusted at the word whore .

If anything, she looked intrigued . “There’s only Mrs. McBride and me in the house, no one else.” She tilted her head. “How was your whore meant to get here? The roads are impassible.”

Julian almost retorted that he’d made it here on the roads, but she was right. The roads were impassible to any vehicle. A single horse might make it as his had, but Julian knew himself to be an excellent horseman. A girl off the streets would hardly ride a horse, let alone own one.

“How the hell did you come here?” he demanded.

“The mail coach to Dydle,” she said with supreme dignity. “And then Plum and I walked the rest of the way here.”

“And you brought your dog,” he muttered. She was such a strange, unworldly creature.

She looked surprised. “Of course.”

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, and pointed sternly at her. “You stay there.”

He strode to the door and into the hall. This couldn’t be. He couldn’t be stuck at Adders lustful and unable to relieve his desires. He was already on the cusp of losing control. How long could he last like this?

He stalked into the kitchen, where Mrs. McBride was swathing herself in multiple scarves. “You know what woman I meant. Is she here or not?”

The cook looked at him. “There’s nobody here but my lady.”

“No one.” He collapsed into a chair, watching as the woman walked to the kitchen door. “You’re leaving early.”

“Aye, I am,” she replied. “I’d hate to be caught walking in this storm after dark. Don’t expect me tomorrow, either. There’s no use trying to journey here with the roads as they are. You and my lady are on your own until the roads clear.”

With that Mrs. McBride slammed the kitchen door behind her.

Elspeth looked at Plum as she sat in the library. “Should we follow him, do you think?”

The dog’s only answer was to slump to the rug in front of the fireplace and turn over so his clumsy paws waved in the air.

Elspeth sighed, looking around. She was not even a quarter finished with the Adders library. After her arrival yesterday she’d spent most of the rest of the day washing both herself and Plum. She’d not even had time to look into the library until the evening.

At which point she’d discovered that, far from being the small room she’d expected from Mr. Greycourt and Messalina’s description, the Adders Hall library was cavernous. Spiderwebs hung in sheets from the ceiling, and there was a pervasive smell of mold. Thousands of books lined every wall. Only two tall, narrow windows pierced the gloom. The fire helped—and brought warmth to the room—but Elspeth still had to light a half-dozen candles in order to see the print in the books.

When Mr. Greycourt had walked in, Elspeth had been looking at a small volume of poetry by an anonymous Elizabethan person. The pages were speckled, the binding rotting, but despite the book’s condition, the sonnets within were simply divine. She wondered if this “anonymous” was a woman—how many anonymouses might be women.

But she was getting distracted again, perhaps because if she didn’t distract herself, she would start thinking about Mr. Greycourt’s prostitute. About Mr. Greycourt himself. About what he might do with a courtesan.

Would his gray eyes widen, his severe mouth open helplessly, his entire expression be unguarded in the throes of passion?

Elspeth swallowed. She shouldn’t think of such things—at least not about a man who didn’t even seem to like her. He’d been angry when he’d burst into the library earlier. She was quite obviously not the person he was looking for.

Well, that hardly mattered to her. What Mr. Greycourt did behind the door of his bedroom was none of her business.

The thought made her grumpy for some reason.

“Come on, Plum,” she called to the dog. “No matter how angry he is, he can’t keep me from supper.”

So saying, she boldly left the library, skirts swishing as she walked down the hall to the kitchens. Mrs. McBride had proved to be a perfect companion yesterday and today. The cook didn’t care what Elspeth did during the day, and she had made mounds of delicious food for both herself and Elspeth, among it the most wonderful apple pie.

Mrs. McBride had warned Elspeth this morning that she might not return tomorrow, but she’d assured Elspeth that there were plenty of victuals to be had in the kitchen.

Elspeth certainly hoped so.

She and Plum arrived at the kitchen to find it quiet, and for a moment she thought that they were alone. Then she saw Mr. Greycourt sitting at the worn kitchen table, his head in his hands.

Elspeth stifled a gasp. She’d never seen the proud man so vulnerable. She hesitated. Perhaps a retreat would be the smart thing. She could go back to the library until the kitchen was clear.

But that would mean leaving Mr. Greycourt alone.

Her heart squeezed. Somehow she couldn’t make herself abandon him. Elspeth crossed to the hearth, where a pot hung near the fire. She lifted the lid, and a lovely warm smell of stew wafted out.

Plum came trotting over.

“Hungry?” she asked the dog.

Plum sat and licked his lips.

Elspeth tore a piece of brown bread into a battered old plate and poured a bit of stew on top, carefully stirring it until the meal was no longer hot.

She set the plate in front of Plum and then ladled out two bowls, which she brought to the table, gently setting one down in front of Mr. Greycourt and the other opposite him.

She brought the bread to the table along with a bit of cheese and a bottle of wine.

“Have something to eat,” she said quietly to Mr. Greycourt. He still had his head in his hands, not looking at her. “I’ve got some wine and bread, and Mrs. McBride has made a stew. Beef, I believe.”

Thick chunks of meat lay in the gravy, surrounded by carrots and onions and other vegetables. Elspeth blew on a spoonful.

Mr. Greycourt raised his head, looking weary. “What are you doing here, Elspeth? Are you a ghost sent to haunt me?”

She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hurt. “Whyever would you be haunted?”

“For my sins.” He barked a laugh. “For my many, many sins.”

She cautiously took a bite of the stew—delicious! “I’ve never seen you do anything sinful,” she said as she uncorked the wine. “But even supposing you might be a very wicked sinner, why would I be haunting you?”

She poured them both wine.

He stared at her, his beautiful gray eyes almost despairing. “I don’t know, but you seem uniquely suited to harassing me. Wherever I go, there you are, smiling and sunny, as if sent to draw me from my path. As if you could lift me from the darkness and lead me into the light.”

Elspeth swallowed another bite of the stew. “And that’s… bad, showing you light?”

“Very bad.” He picked up his spoon and twirled it between his fingers. “I could get lost, lose my guard, wander into frivolity with you and your temptations.”

“Hmm.” Elspeth was doubtful that she made any kind of siren. Maybe he was simply exhausted from his journey. “Well, the only thing I wish to tempt you with now is that stew. Eat it, and it’ll warm you.”

She thought she heard him mutter, “Sorceress” under his breath, but he followed her instructions nonetheless, beginning to eat.

Elspeth felt a small sense of satisfaction at having talked him into consuming his supper. He was so autocratic, marching about like an ice man, imperious to all physical want.

But he wasn’t really, was he? Mr. Greycourt might want to seem an automaton, but he was a man underneath his cold exterior. A man who had needs. Didn’t anyone at all take care of him? Make sure he ate and slept and was warm when it was cold?

She studied him as he sipped his wine. Mr. Greycourt was usually so forbidding that perhaps most people simply didn’t think he had any wants, let alone that he needed attention from someone caring.

Perhaps she was the first to do so.

But then the memory of the woman he’d been looking for when he arrived came to her, an unpleasant reminder. He had his own life, and maybe this woman met his needs all on her own?

Elspeth cleared her throat. “I’m sorry your woman isn’t here.”

He glanced at her. “You shouldn’t speak of such things.”

“Why not?” she asked, honestly surprised. There were so many rules in London for a lady—most of them restrictions on actions or words.

“Because—” he said repressively then shook his head. “I beg your pardon. I had no business talking about the women I hire. I can only blame my… tiredness from the ride here.”

“And your disappointment, I think,” she said. He looked at her blankly, and she added, “That she wasn’t here. Your woman. Your…” She wrinkled her nose. “Is she really a whore or is she your lover or mistress? You seemed awfully aggrieved that she wasn’t waiting here. More so than seems natural for what you call a whore. You must know her at least.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I contracted for her to be sent from… well, where she’s from doesn’t matter. Only that I don’t know her. And”—he scowled—“this is not a suitable discussion for a lady.”

Elspeth pushed her half-empty bowl aside and folded her hands on the table, setting her chin atop them. “Then don’t see me as a lady if it’s so hard for you. I’m really not a proper lady anyway. I grew up in the north of Scotland without lessons in drawing or dancing. I’m just me, Elspeth.”

He looked at her oddly then, his gray eyes wide. Was it so hard for him to see her as just another person instead of a lady who needed to be coddled?

Elspeth smiled. “Do you want a bath after supper?”

“I…”

“Of course you’ll need a bath.” Elspeth hopped up. “I’d better start heating the water.”

“I can do that,” he snapped.

“And so can I,” she replied. “Finish your supper.”

He subsided then, eating the stew. But even as he did so, she could feel his eyes on her.

Elspeth filled a large kettle with water from the cistern and picked it up carefully.

“The pot is too heavy for you,” he said from behind her. “I can do that.”

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “And so can I.” She demonstrated by carrying the kettle to the fireplace, where she set it over the fire to warm. She repeated the procedure two more times. “There,” she said after she had set the third pot. “It’s not a lot, but you should have enough to heat a hip bath.” She glanced around the kitchen. “If you have one here?”

“I don’t understand,” he said, not answering the question about the hip bath. “Why are you here? Why are you doing these things for me?”

“Well,” she said, coming to sit across from him again, “I suppose someone has to do these things for you.”

She smiled brightly.

His eyes narrowed. “And my first question?”

She met his gaze, saying nothing, and her heart began pounding because if he pressed the point…

Mr. Greycourt sighed. “What am I to do with you?”

“I don’t know,” Elspeth said honestly.

It suddenly occurred to her that they might be stuck at Adders for days, even weeks, until the roads were clear again.

She cleared her throat. “Erm. Perhaps in the meantime I could help you with your bath?”

His head jerked up as he stared at her incredulously.

“I meant,” Elspeth hastily said, her cheeks heating, “filling a bath. With water. For you.”

He shook his head, rising. “There’s no need.” He strode to the kitchen cabinet, pulling out a shallow copper bath from behind it. “I can do the rest.”

“Shall I bring down a fresh change of clothes?” she asked, watching him fill the bath. “That is, if you have any here?”

“I do, but I’ll find them myself.” He glanced up at her, his eyes glinting silver in the candlelight. “You can retire now. Unless you mean to stay and watch.”

For a fraction of a second, she contemplated telling him that she did want to stay. To watch him take off his boots and coat and shirt and breeches. To see him completely unclothed and then to witness him sitting in that small bath. The water would hardly come to his hips, certainly not covering, let alone hiding, his—his… cock. And balls.

She felt herself blush wildly.

“I’ll just bid you good night, then,” she said hastily. “Come here, Plum.”

The dog got up slowly. He’d found himself a place by the hearth and was evidently loath to leave the warmth. Plum took a last lingering look at the fire before obediently trotting to keep up with Elspeth as she left the kitchen.

“Really,” Elspeth muttered to the dog as they mounted the staircase to the next floor. “Must you tarry while I’m burning hotter and hotter? I can’t think that’s a kind thing to do to a friend.”

Plum didn’t answer, but he did wag his tail as they arrived at the bedroom she’d been using.

Elspeth pushed open the door and found the bedroom nearly dark. She suspected that at one time the room had been richly appointed, but the brighter rectangles on the walls were a testimony to pictures taken down, and the furniture was as sparse as in a monk’s cell. A bed, a chair, and a small table with a broken leg, that was all. Still, the place was quite adequate for her needs.

Elspeth crossed to the fireplace and stirred the embers on the banked fire—she’d quickly discovered that Adders was a terribly cold house.

As she readied for bed, Elspeth considered Mr. Greycourt’s arrival. He hadn’t immediately thrown her out or forbidden her from searching in the library, which was a very good thing. Although, she reflected as she brushed her hair, Mr. Greycourt’s leniency might be due to his wearied state. He might order her from Adders in the morning. But there was little she could do about that now—better save her worries for tomorrow.

As she climbed into the tall, narrow bed, she couldn’t help her thoughts wandering back to the reason for Mr. Greycourt’s visit. Did he meet his paid companions only in the country? If so, why? And what exactly would he do now that he’d been deprived of his chosen woman?

The last question jolted her into alertness.

Elspeth stared into the dark, imagining Mr. Greycourt in his bath—quite nude—terribly, horribly unsatiated. Wouldn’t it be natural for a man thus deprived of another to satisfy him to…

A picture appeared fully formed and damnably detailed in her mind. Mr. Greycourt sitting in the shallow copper tub, his wet shoulders gleaming in the kitchen candlelight, his hand drifting lower over his stomach and between his legs… The details were blurry, but the thought was enough to make her shift restlessly, to send her own hand seeking between her thighs. Oh, she was so soft here! The silk of her thighs brushed against the backs of her fingers as she delved into her damp folds. Her little kernel was waiting, alert, slippery, and so sweet beneath her touch. A feeling of warmth stole through her as she circled that nub, imagining Mr. Greycourt touching himself.

Her palm lay on her maiden hair, and she realized he would have a bush above his cock, wouldn’t he? Stark black like his hair, bold and curling, and a spike of pleasure shot through her. It was so naughty—picturing the hair on a man’s bare, exposed body. She’d seen drawings of nude males—paintings, even—but they rarely had body hair. Perhaps hair was too basic, too animal, to be included in lofty ideals of artistic beauty.

But it was there nonetheless.

She had hair between her thighs, and Mr. Greycourt would have hair as well. He was just as human as she. He had needs. Felt pain and hunger and pleasure. How often did he touch himself? Did he do it on a schedule like a soldier—mannerly and businesslike? Or did he hate the idea of physical want, holding himself back, making himself wait until the need burst through his control?

She groaned softly, her finger moving faster.

And when he had lost all control, when he could deprive himself no longer, did he gasp when he finally touched himself? Touched his penis ? It was wrong, wicked, to imagine such private things about someone else. She couldn’t help herself, though. He’d bite his lip. Or maybe grit his teeth, the pleasure too overwhelming for starved senses. His long black hair would be unbound from that severe braid, falling recklessly about his shoulders, perhaps even caught between his lips as he lost control.

As he let himself free.

Warmth rushed through her, sweet, sweet oblivion, the sparks of her pleasure making her arch as she felt her own release.

Oh! Oh, that was lovely.

Elspeth rolled over sluggishly, her body turned to warm syrup, and settled, the image of Mr. Greycourt lax in his bath rocking her to sleep.