The Earl's Irresistible Challenge

Chapter Four

‘What the devil?’

Olivia dropped the tablecloth she was holding and ran for the study door. It was probably not a smart thing to do. The sound of a man cursing in what should be an empty house would usually be taken as a good sign to run in the opposite direction. But Olivia recognised the voice and, perhaps foolishly, she wasn’t in the least afraid. Alert, but not afraid.

She stopped in the doorway. Lord Sinclair was standing, hands on hips, inspecting her Wall of Conjecture.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, tucking a straggling curl behind her ear. It was absurd to wish she was wearing something more presentable than a simple muslin round dress. He was in riding clothes but he possessed the same casual elegance in his buckskins and dark blue riding coat as he had on both previous occasions. Again she was struck by the sheer power of his face and frame. He looked utterly out of place in her parlour. In her world.

‘What the...what are all these?’ he demanded and she moved a little more deeply into the room despite her discomfort.

‘Those are lists.’

‘I can see that. I’ve just never seen so many on a wall. How do you manage to make them stay there?’

‘I had felt pasted on the wall over a layer of corkwood and I use sewing pins to secure them. When I tried laying them out on the floor they kept scattering. How did you enter?’

‘And the strings? It looks like a mad spider is attempting to build its web here.’

‘That is how I remember what connects with what. It helps me think.’

‘If your mind looks anything like this wall, heaven help you.’

‘Did you come here to insult me or was there some other purpose to breaking into my house?’

‘I didn’t break, I entered through the area door. You really should have a locksmith install something more reliable than those ancient locks, you know. Your guest is arriving at five o’clock, you said?’ He proceeded along the wall and she resisted the urge to tear down her lists before he could read them. She would only look ridiculous and, besides, she wanted him to see them. If he had been intrigued enough to come today, perhaps this would snare him further.

‘Yes. I was preparing the room for her. Are you here to stop me?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you here, then?’

‘Curiosity. I’ve never attended an occultist’s meeting. I am expanding my horizons.’

He reached the part of the wall dedicated to his father and she tensed, waiting. It was emptier than Henry Payton’s side, but even the meagre amount of information about his death Mercer uncovered for her was likely to anger him. But he said nothing and after a moment he moved towards the desk.

‘More lists? Famous occultists... Who is Madame Bulgari?’

‘I am. Gypsy Sue helped me think of the name, she said people are impressed by foreign airs, but the rest I gathered from books.’

He took a book from the desk, his brows rising as he flipped through the pages. ‘Communication with the Other Side. Wasn’t Baron Lyttelton a Member of Parliament?’

‘I have no idea. Please don’t lose my place.’

‘Pericles? Christina, Queen of Sweden? A select grouping.’ He tossed the book down and took another. ‘And what is this tome about? The Forbidden Secrets of Occultism by Madame Volgatskaya? That sounds a little more entertaining, though Madame Vulgar would be more appropriate by all the gilt on this binding. I am beginning to think Madame Bulgari an excellent choice of moniker.’

She plucked the book from his hands. ‘If you came to poke fun at me, you may leave. I have work to do.’

‘Work?’

She didn’t wait to see if he would follow. He might be as flippant as he liked, but she knew the pitfalls of curiosity too well not to recognise a fellow sufferer of that malady.

Back in the parlour she drew closed the thick velvet curtains, casting the room into a gloom that would be near absolute by late afternoon when Marcia Pendle arrived. The candles and incense were prepared and she lit the fire so it would calm by the time the magic began. She needed just a hint of light and enough heat to spread the scents Gypsy Sue recommended. She marked the item on her list and continued: tinderboxes, brandy...

‘I don’t know which room is more disturbing, this parlour or your spider’s lair of a study. The study by a narrow margin, I think,’ he commented behind her.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because this is clearly for show, that room is in earnest.’

She shrugged. Votive candles. Bergamot oil. Present.

‘Did the otherworldly Mrs Volgatskaya inspire this decor? What are these scarves for? Do you perform a dance?’

‘No, I bind unwary visitors and sacrifice them to the dark lords.’

‘No, thank you. I’ve never had to resort to binding anyone to get what I want, certainly not women.’

She looked up from her list, her mouth curving into a smile despite her attempts to keep it prim.

‘You are rather vain, aren’t you, Lord Sinclair?’

He slid a scarf through his hands, his fingers skimming the shimmering fabric absently and his smile answering hers.

‘Am I? I wouldn’t call it vanity, precisely.’

Don’t pander to him, Olivia.

‘What would you call it, then? And don’t say “experience”, that would merely confirm my point.’

‘I won’t call it anything at all, then. So, what happens next?’

‘Next you leave.’

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down in clear disregard for conventions of politeness, still tugging the scarf idly between his hands. The hiss of silk as it slipped through his fingers tingled upwards from her feet, travelling like smoke over her skin. She could feel the warmth it picked up in the friction against his flesh, mirroring on the softness between her own fingers, a faint burning, spreading to her palms like the singe of acid. She held herself back from snatching the scarf away from him.

‘Do you really want me to leave, Olivia?’

Her name sounded like smoke and silk as well and she had to breathe in before she could speak. She was losing her footing again which was probably precisely what he wanted. The object of that subterranean rumble of heat was no doubt to soften her, make her pliable to his manipulations. That was all.

‘Miss Silverdale,’ she amended. The scarf paused for a moment before resuming its tormenting progress.

‘So. Do you want me to leave, Miss Olivia Silverdale?’

‘If you are here to help me, you may stay. But I don’t need you here if all you plan to do is poke fun at me,’ she said and he tossed the scarf on to the table. The sultry warmth was gone, confirming her suspicions, but she felt no victory at withstanding his charm.

‘I don’t find obsessions particularly amusing, Miss Silverdale. I am not here to help you, but to ensure you don’t do damage to my concerns with your rather colourful methods. My family name has been dragged through enough mud and we don’t need any help from outsiders in adding to our infamy.’

‘You said you weren’t here to prevent my meeting.’

‘I’m not. I am here to...oversee. I will be in the next room, listening as you do your occultist’s best to extract gold from Marcia Pendle, so keep that in mind as you delve. When you are done I want you to make it clear to her that her spectral friend will be taking an extended trip on the other side and will no longer be available to your summons. So have her make her tearful farewells and send her back to Catte Street. Permanently.’

‘I believe I told you I don’t enjoy being threatened, Lord Sinclair.’

‘I sympathise. I’m not fond of the feeling myself. So now we understand each other.’

‘I am not threatening you, I am merely trying to uncover—’

‘Yes, I understood you the first time, Miss Silverdale. You should consider it a serious concession that I am allowing even this meeting to take place. You take another step down this path without my knowledge and I move from threats to actions. Am I clear?’

‘To be fair, I did inform you of this step.’

‘Don’t split hairs.’

‘Out of curiosity, what actions are you contemplating?’

Some of the severity faded from his eyes.

‘You want me to show you my cards, Miss Silverdale? I’m insulted you think me such a soft touch.’

‘Not at all. I think you understand me well enough to know I am more likely to respond to a believable threat than to bombastic words.’

‘Very well then. My first action will be to send word to your brother, Guy Silverdale, as to your whereabouts and actions. As the head of your family he might object to his only sister leasing a house in a shabby-genteel part of London and arranging rendezvous with notorious rakes. Is that sufficient to start with?’

‘How did you know my brother’s name is Guy?’

‘I consulted my spectral spirit friends and they had a word with their Yorkshire connections by way of the ghost of Catherine the Great and Julius Caesar. Well, Olivia?’

Perhaps it was the way he said her name again, or perhaps it was merely his presence there and the fact he mentioned Guy’s name, as if knowing that would reach her above all else. She ought not to be worried; if he was completely serious about his threat he would have acted on it already. Which meant he was willing to make a concession, even if it was only out of curiosity. All she had to do was ensure he remained curious. It would mean coaxing him along, inch by inch.

She sat and extended her hand.

‘Very well, Lord Sinclair. After this evening dear departed George will take a long cruise down the River Styx until we agree otherwise.’

The hand might have been a mistake. Her nerve endings hadn’t calmed in the least from his scarf-toying and they leapt to attention as the warmth of his hand closed over hers, revelling in the contact. Her other hand twitched, as if envious, and she pulled away and hurried towards the door.

‘Marcia will be here soon so I must dress. I will be down directly.’

She didn’t wait for him to respond and, as she rushed upstairs, she didn’t know if she hoped he would still be there when she returned.

Chapter Five

Marcia Pendle’s cloying perfume rose like smoke from under the door and Lucas resisted the urge to move away. He did not want to miss any of the entertainment in the other room. Miss Olivia Silverdale might not know what a Bulgarian madame sounded like, but her version of a spirit-possessed fortune-teller would do well in a Drury Lane farce.

He had begun his vigil of her little masquerade annoyed as hell, but after half an hour of her antics he was having a hard time resisting the urge to laugh out loud. He couldn’t believe Marcia Pendle was taking her so seriously.

To give Miss Silverdale her due she paced her theatrical nonsense well. Just when Marcia Pendle was on the verge of extracting a promise of eternal fidelity from the deceased, who sounded like fidelity had not been his strong point during his corporeal state, Miss Silverdale sent him scurrying at the interruption of a host of avenging angels accusing Marcia of assisting in the perpetration of a heinous sin.

‘You must reveal all!’ Madame Bulgari intoned, her voice quivering with baritone outrage. ‘Only then will the Lords of the Gates be appeased and allow you to unite with George! The wife of the man you maligned has powerful spirits working for her. They can bar your way for ever!’

‘No! Please, Madame Bulgari, I only did what this man told me. I swear! He said it was to help someone from ruin. He weren’t no flash cove, nor sharp—why, he was nervous as a virgin on her bridal night. I reckoned the lady who rode that fellow so hard was his relation and he didn’t want questions. He gave me five guineas just to tell the constable I was this Henry Payton’s particular friend these past six months and that I visited him veiled and all. I told him don’t you worry, it happens, don’t I know it? I didn’t mean trouble; I thought I was doing a good turn. Tell the spirits!’

‘Calm yourself. They know your heart is true. They will seek the malefactor, but you must name him.’

‘The mal-e-what?’

‘He who did evil. The man who bade you lie.’

‘But I don’t know him, I tell you. He shows up and asks for me particular—says he heard I used to be on the stage and offers me five guineas. Five! He shows them to me, too, right there in the middle of Catte Street which shows you he has less sense than a day-old kitten. Clear as anything he didn’t want to be seen with me, had me walk three steps behind him the whole way from where the hackney left us. I only know his name because a man he passed tipped his hat and said, “Evening, Eldritch, fancy seeing you south of the river.” Poor fellow almost wet himself, turned redder than a duke in a new corset. I’m not saying it’s right, lying about who this Payton was frolicking with behind his missus’s back, but it ain’t a shade on the evil I’ve seen elsewhere. It ain’t right to punish me and my George for trying to help. You tell them that, will you?’

‘They hear you, but still you must present him to their judgement. Tell them what manner of man is he. Close your eyes and give him the image you see in your mind, give it to them so they may take away his sin from your spirit. Describe him.’

‘I don’t know. He was...a man. Not tall. He were dressed like a clerk or one of them better shopkeepers, brown eyes, I think, or black. I see a dozen of those a day at Madame’s, they look alike in the end. I’d say by his clothes he’s got a wife or someone who sees to his housekeeping, but they ain’t too well-padded. There’s the darning, neat stitches, but enough to say he doesn’t have too many Sunday clothes, see? If he’d have come to Madame Bernieres you can be sure he’d have been palmed off on the country girls who don’t know the tricks yet. He looked serious, scared, but then he ought to, oughtn’t he? Are they still angry, the spirits?’

The silence that followed her agonised question was punctuated by her tearful sniffling and Lucas reined in his impatience. Surely even the irrepressible Miss Silverdale recognised there was nothing more to be extracted from Marcia Pendle, even under the threat of eternal damnation. Finally there was a rustling and a shuddering sigh.

‘Ah, there is much water, fog, they are going away.’

‘But they won’t keep me from George when my time comes?’

‘For now they are appeased. But they say I am not to communicate with them again on your behalf unless they send word first. I dare not defy them.’

Lucas pushed away from the door frame. Marcia Pendle’s tale was far more sensible than Miss Silverdale’s theories. Perhaps now this outrageous young woman would abandon her fantasies of conspiracies. He glanced at the lists decorating the wall behind him and sighed. Not likely. People believed what they wanted to believe and Olivia Silverdale wanted to believe Henry Payton a wronged man.

When the front door closed behind the sniffling Marcia Pendle he entered the parlour. With the reek of perfume, the guttering candles and the garish scarves, it looked like a struggling brothel. Olivia was unwinding the gold-embroidered scarf that secured her curls and they tumbled down, glinting with copper and gold lights as they settled on her shoulders. She twisted them into a knot and secured it with a wooden pin, but tendrils escaped like trailing ivy, framing her face and curling around her neck and ears. Lucas picked up a discarded scarf to keep his hands occupied. It was a bad sign when he began contemplating helping a woman with her coiffure.

‘Well? What did you think?’ she asked the silence.

‘I think that was the worst Balkan accent I have ever had the misfortune to hear.’

Laughter burst in her eyes but her rouged mouth remained serious. It was a peculiar and unsettling combination.

‘It was effective, though, wasn’t it?’ she demanded.

‘That depends on what you consider effective.’ He went to the mantelpiece, snuffing the candles. ‘I think we should remove to your spider’s lair. This room reeks.’

She followed him into the study, untangling scarves as she went and balling them into a rainbowed lump. Without the veil she looked even more a parody of a fortune-teller, her cheeks and lips flared with rouge and her eyes dusky with kohl.

‘Can’t you take off that paint? You look like an actress from one of the lesser theatres.’

The honey-and-moss eyes sparkled with either amusement or annoyance, but her answer was all business.

‘I know we did not learn much beyond the fact that this Eldritch told her what to say to the constable, but at least that is something. We must find him.’

‘Sit down, Miss Silverdale. Let me explain something to you.’

She folded her arms, the tangle of scarves pressed against her bosom like a strangled pet, drawing his gaze to the low-cut bodice of the purple satin monstrosity she wore and to the tantalising cleft between what he judged were two delightfully shaped globes, neither too large nor too small. He regretfully removed his eyes from this unintended display and fixed them instead on hers.

‘Very well, stand if you wish. I will explain in small but explicit words so there can be no chance of a misunderstanding, and you will have to forgive me for not sparing your maidenly blushes because any woman dressed as you are dressed at the moment and pursuing your present course of action can surely survive a little plain speaking. Your godfather had the misfortune to expire mid-coitus—it is rare and highly undesirable, but it happens. It would have been better if the real person involved in this unfortunate situation had hared off and left Payton to be discovered in due course instead of involving a third party, but the fact remains this is nothing more than an unfortunate accident.’

‘But...’

‘But nothing. Your godfather was not perfect, no man is. If the worst you know of him is that he had an affair, then he is a man like many others, however regrettable that fact is. I suggest you accept this and move on, and by move on I mean back home at the soonest possible opportunity.’

‘What of the note I found with your father’s correspondence? What if they are connected after all? What if this Mr Eldritch was involved in his death? Perhaps he had been trying to prevent Henry from doing something or saying something or—’

‘Miss Silverdale,’ he interrupted again, ‘You clearly read too many novels. I have indulged your imagination far enough. You have a day to pack and leave Spinner Street and return whence you came or I will send a messenger to your family informing them of your whereabouts and your activities.’

‘Don’t you even wish to see your father’s letters?’

‘No, thank you. Twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow you should be well on your way out of London. If you need help hiring a post chaise, I can offer my butler’s services. He is very discreet.’

Her arms spread wide, the crushed scarves fluttering in a parody of an exotic dance. ‘How can you be so certain there is no more to this than a weak heart and an officious relation? Can you honestly walk away without a qualm?’

‘Not honestly, sweetheart. Too late for that. But without a qualm, yes.’

‘Oh, don’t be so glib!’

‘Too late for that as well. What the devil do you think you will achieve if you keep rummaging in other people’s rubbish heaps? Do you think you will discover a dastardly plot to defame your godfather that somehow stretches back twenty years to another plot against my father? That you will redeem them from their own iniquity and win your godmother’s gratitude? The world doesn’t operate that way. Just accept that your godfather, like my father, was a weak man who made a mistake, or several. That is the end of this story. Anything else is pure indulgence on your part.’

Except for her garish clothes she looked a model of cool defiance, her shoulders back, her lips pressed firmly together and her eyes disdainful. But her hands gave her away, kneading away at the tangle of scarves, and he was sure he heard the rending of silk. He doubted the colourful fabrics would survive the evening.

Still, when she answered her voice was calm.

‘I know you are probably correct. About them. About me as well. But I must do this. If I walked away now...’ she shook her head ‘...I cannot do it. At least when I leave I shall know I did my best.’

She looked ridiculous but peculiarly appealing with her painted face and beseeching hazel eyes made far too vivid by the kohl. He assessed his options and sighed.

‘Do me a favour and scrub your face clean and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a demi-monde’s back. Then we will talk. Calmly. Is there anything to drink here?’

‘Drink? There is brandy in the parlour. Gypsy Sue suggested having some on hand to make Marcia more generous. Or would you care for tea?’

‘I will find the brandy. Go and change.’

The brandy was surprisingly good and he took it into the study and poured himself a measure and on second thought poured her a glass, too. Perhaps it would make her more generous as well.

He paused with the glass halfway to his mouth at the thought of Olivia Silverdale being generous, the potency of the image surprising him with a rush of heat that flowed upwards from his stomach and then settled back into his groin with an insistent thudding. It was utterly unwelcome, but before he could push it aside it was followed by the realisation that she was somewhere upstairs, undressing. That the vulgar purple-satin dress was even now hissing downwards over her skin, puddling on the floor at her feet with a whisper like an exhaled breath.

He tightened his hold on his glass and grimaced at the unwelcome thoughts. She might be an appealing little thing, but despite her eccentricity she was clearly gently born and as far outside his areas of interest as was possible without being married with ten children. Besides, from what he witnessed in the church she had no positive outlook on physical intimacy.

The image returned of her standing in the church, chin up, eyes closed as that young cub bent to kiss her. It was a submissive stance except for the fact that her hands had been fisted and her mouth anything but inviting. She looked more like a soldier before a firing squad, defiant but resolved to embrace his fate, than a young woman about to be kissed. It struck him as strange then, but doubly so now. Someone so very passionate about life should not look like that when a young man she clearly cares for steals a very chaste kiss.

I must do this...

He swirled his brandy, watching it lick against the edges of the glass.

It was not his concern. She might not be able to tame her curiosity, but he had years of experience doing just that. The fact that his discipline was lagging in his dealings with her was no excuse to slacken control further. She was not his concern. The ragged remnants of the Sinclair name were. Sam should not have to weather any more storms and so his only concern was to push this genie back into her bottle and move on.

‘Oh, good. You found it. Is that for me?’

He turned, his body clenching in readiness to either administer or receive a blow. She was transformed again—she was wearing a cream-muslin dress with rows of tiny pale-yellow flowers marking the bodice and sleeves. The makeup was gone, but her lips and cheeks were reddened from rubbing and a faint shadow lingered around her eyes. She had not even tried to dress her hair, but merely twisted her curls a little more rigorously into an off-centre knot and secured them with what looked like short knitting needles. She looked like what he imagined a young woman from the country would look like in the privacy of the breakfast room, still warm from bed and with nothing more on her mind than embroidery and morning calls. Not that he had much experience with that breed or wanted to. What he wanted was to pull one of those needles and see if that knot of burnished curls survived. Then take out the other and watch it all unfurl. Then lead her upstairs and watch her remove that proper dress as well.

Hell and damnation. This was the very definition of unwelcome.

She sat, sipped her brandy, frowned and sipped it again.

‘This is rather foul. Do men truly enjoy it or do they merely drink it for the pleasure of becoming intoxicated? By the way, I should warn you I have no intention of leaving London tomorrow.’

‘Not voluntarily. I’m aware of that.’

‘Not even under duress. I must at least discover who this Mr Eldritch is. If he is indeed merely a concerned relation and there is another woman involved, then...well, perhaps you are right. But I must try. Well? You said you wished to talk. What shall we talk about?’

How I am going to bed you.

He smiled at his unaccustomed descent into folly and shook his head.

‘Who was that young man you were kissing at St George’s?’

Her eyes widened and a flush rushed over her cheekbones, as vivid as Madame Bulgari’s rouge.

‘You saw us?’

‘I saw him accost you by your carriage and, as you pointed out, I am a curious fellow, so, yes, I followed you back into the church.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘You weren’t meant to. So, who is he?’

‘Colin Payton. Henry Payton’s son.’

‘Ah, I see. What is there between you?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Are you engaged to that young pup?’

Her mouth flattened and her eyes narrowed.

‘He is not a young pup; he is but a good man. But, no, we are not engaged.’

‘If you go about kissing him in churches you are as near to engaged as possible without the priest reading the banns. Why didn’t you tell me this is one of your reasons for wanting Payton cleared? If I am to help you, you must be honest with me, Miss Silverdale.’

‘I didn’t tell you because it isn’t true.’

‘So you kiss men in churches for the sheer pleasure of it?’

‘He kissed me—I didn’t instigate it.’ Her ferocity confirmed his observation, though he couldn’t tell if it was merely a virgin’s inexperience or some deeper objection. Probably the former; her obsession with conspiracies was making him see shadows when there were none. His experience with virgins was thankfully minimal; for all he knew they all reacted like that at the prospect of physical intimacy.

Before he could respond she pressed her hands together, calming. ‘But I might marry him, if I cannot solve this any other way.’

‘How precisely would matrimony solve it?’

‘Well, it would at least solve the financial concerns that Henry’s death caused. I am very wealthy, you see. If my brother Jack had married his sister Phoebe they would have had his protection, both financial and otherwise, but he died and now it falls to me to help as much as I can.’

‘I see. Very noble of you.’

‘It has nothing to do with being noble. I am merely trying to do what is right for people for whom I care deeply. To answer your as-yet-unspoken question, no, I will not cease merely because you tell me to, so I think it is in your best interest to help me rather than try to chase me away.’

‘And so we circle back to your agenda. Are you always this stubborn or do I bring out the worst in you?’

‘Both.’

He laughed, moving forward to raise her chin with the tips of his fingers.

‘Do you know, if you want me to comply, you should try to be a little less demanding and a little more conciliating.’

‘I don’t know why I should bother. You will no doubt do precisely as you wish without regard for anyone. So far, the only way I have found of persuading you is either by appealing to your curiosity or to your self-interest. I don’t see what good begging would do.’

He slid his thumb gently over her chin, just brushing the line of her lip, and watched as her eyes dilated with what could as much be a sign of alarm as physical interest. He wished he knew which. His blood was simmering, expanding, demanding he find out.

‘It depends what you are begging for,’ he said softly, pulling very slightly on her lower lip. Her breath caught, but she still did not move. Stubborn and imprudent. Or did she really trust him not to take advantage of the fact that they were alone in an empty house in a not-very-genteel part of London?

It really was a pity she planned to waste herself on that dull and dependable young man. What on earth did she think her life would be like with him? All that leashed intensity would burn the poor fool to a crisp if he ever set it loose, which was unlikely. A couple of years of being tied to him and she would be chomping at the bit and probably very ripe for a nice flirtation.

He shook his head at his thoughts. Whatever else he was, and whatever his body was unexpectedly demanding, he had never yet crossed the line with an inexperienced young woman; they were too apt to confuse physical pleasure with emotional connection. It wouldn’t be smart to indulge this temptation to see if those lips were as soft and delectable as they looked. Not smart, but very tempting...

‘You could always offer a trade,’ he prompted gently, testing the line of her lip with another soft brush of his thumb. The sensation was addictive.

‘A trade?’ Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat.

‘I will try to find out who Eldritch is...’

‘And what must I do?’ Her expression was wary, but she did not pull away and if anything the tension in her shoulders relaxed, as if becoming accustomed to the licence he was taking. He wasn’t certain that was an encouraging sign either.

‘If it is about turning my back on this, then there is no trade,’ she added as the silence stretched.

‘I wouldn’t think of asking for something I know you are constitutionally incapable of. It is something much simpler.’

‘Well, what?’ She frowned and he hesitated. However much he wanted to test this strange need that was sinking its claws in him, the thought of asking her for something she had shown such an aversion to when approached by her friend was too uncomfortable. It was a breach of trust where trust should not be an issue at all, and that was problematic. He breathed in and dropped his hand, stepping back.