Page 21 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

“T hey went where ?” Noah had left Julius sleeping in his chamber with Isabelle looking after him.

“Hitched up the ’orse ’erself, ’er an’ that maid o’ ’ers. Tho’ I reckon the maid did most o’ the work.” Rory, a wiry young man with a lean, hard-earned frame and a sun-bronzed complexion that gave testament to the satisfaction of his working outdoors, hung a rake on the wall and faced Noah. “’Ad to ’elp ’er, sir, but they both seemed sharp as tacks, they did.”

“Rory! An answer, if you please.”

“Aye, sir. Chaston House. Seemed in a bit o’ a ’urry, they did.”

“Saddle my mount,” Noah ordered.

With the clear weather, Noah made it to Chaston in twenty minutes, taking the shorter route over the moors. There was an apology to make. But something deeper drove him. Fear. Fear that she’d disappear and he’d never see her again? His attraction, for the length of time he’d known her, seemed too intense. Hell, they’d met just days before.

Of course she was interesting, her intelligence obvious, her passion equally so. But it was more. He wanted her. And he hated that he wanted her.

It. Made. No. Sense.

And Noah was nothing if not sensible. He was a bloody scientist: logical, pragmatic, analytical.

He pulled to a stop, dropped to the ground and, without even bothering to secure his horse, stalked up to the house. Taking a page from Julius’s book—though he did give two sharp raps—Noah entered without waiting for someone to answer.

Cook, practically Docia’s only servant, entered the hall wiping her hands on a towel. The fifty-ish woman was unusually thin for a cook in his opinion. “Oh, ’tis you, sir. The mistress an’ ’er friend took the trail to the beach.”

“The beach. What the, er, what for?”

“Said they needed air.” Her brow furrowed, adding additional creases to her already wrinkled forehead. “Been gone awhile, tho’.”

“Thank you. I’ll find them.”

Noah took a side door out of the manor and found the closest path that led to the water. Urgency tore through him, but he forced himself to slow. He couldn’t very well find Miss Wimbley and Docia with a broken leg, or worse, neck. There was no sign of the women once he’d reached the ground, but he spotted an unusual brush in the sand he suspected as the result of the hems of their skirts. The longer he followed the markings, the higher inexplicable panic tore through him. The caves.

His gaze shot to the sea. The tide was still out, thank God. He let out a small, pursed breath, but it did little to absolve the sense of urgency. A vision of Miss Wimbley’s limp, unconscious body flashed before him and he took off in a run. He raced along the trail, his alacrity growing with precipitous speed.

Fear, so thick in his veins, it was tangible—and spreading from his toes up. The blood rushed his ears, drowning out the pounding waves. His breath came in short, rapid pants. He stopped and shaded his eyes toward the cave’s entrance up the hill.

A flash of bright green disappeared inside and he took off again. There was no chance of that cave being affected by an incoming tide, but there would be no other way up to the house if Docia and Miss Wimbley lingered too long. They would be stranded overnight.

Noah reached the entrance and his insides plummeted…

There was a sharp inhale, from whom, he couldn’t tell, then Miss Wimbley’s low wail bounding against the stone walls. “Oh, no. Not again.”

“Who’s hurt?” he demanded, rushing forward.

Docia was on her knees next to a pile of moth-eaten clothing—except for pieces of ivory lying at odd angles.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed.

Docia’s face was in her hands, her body trembling with silent sobs.

To Miss Wimbley’s credit, she lowered herself beside Docia and placed an arm about her shoulders. “Who is it?” she asked softly.

Noah darted forward and attempted to check the pockets of a greatcoat to no avail, as it disintegrated from the slightest touch. The silk waistcoat beneath had fared better—so he’d been a gentleman—and Noah found a fob watch. There was an inscription, but it didn’t matter—he couldn’t have read it for the lack of clear lighting.

“It’s Papa,” Docia said. Her voice was numbly calm. “He never made it to London. And no one ever realized.”

While most of the fabric had deteriorated, there was a clear slash that went through the layers. Most disturbing was the dark spread over the heart of a yellowed lawn shirt. Noah pocketed the fob then came to his feet and assisted Docia and Miss Wimbley to theirs.

“Come. The tide’s rising. We don’t wish to be stranded.” He spoke gently but firmly nudged them along. “Docia, I’ll notify the parish constable so they may retrieve his… him.” Noah wanted to check old Chaston’s skeleton, but now was not the time for obvious reasons.

In stark hindsight, he was eternally grateful that Miss Wimbley had been angry with him and chose to stay with Docia. As difficult as she could be, Docia and his family had long ties. Finding her father’s remains in this manner was abhorrent. No one deserved such answers as these in so great a dramatic fashion.

*

“I owe you an apology.”

He did. Geneva stood by the hearth in Miss Hale’s prim, old-fashioned drawing room and rubbed her arms, staring into a blazing fire Mr. Oshea had so kindly brought to life. “I suppose a stabbing having taken place so many years ago was worth noting,” she said dryly, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He grimaced.

She turned back to the fire. “When do you suppose it happened?”

“Twenty years ago is my guess. And for the record, my entire purpose for coming here was to make my apologies. I had no notion Docia’s father—” He let out a small cough. “Everyone believed he’d taken off for London that year. And with the rumors of his extensive travel, well, it was thought he’d taken off for America or Australia. I was a child at the time, so I suppose my memories are somewhat faulty.”

Geneva shivered. “At least there wasn’t blood involved this time.” Wincing, she cut her gaze to Mr. Oshea where he stood by the windows.

Those keen eyes were on her face—correction, on her… lips.

She opened her mouth to express her own regrets, but the words stuck in her throat.

He prowled toward her. Stalking her. Like the big, black cats of the Amazon jungle of which she couldn’t recall the name. Her fingers tingled. Perspiration gathered between her breasts. She was rooted to the floor and could do nothing but stand there. Waiting… because her lips burned to feel his. Weighted lead settled in her feet, rendering her lethargic, unmovable. An Elgin Marble. Her thought processes seemed functional, but her mobility, no. He was a male Medusa and she’d caught the eye and was frozen in time.

“You,” he said with a harsh bite, “drive me wild. In a way I can’t explain. God, that I could. To myself, leastways.”

His words cracked the encasement that held her spellbound and she grabbed him by the lapels and sealed her mouth to his. The moist heat mirrored other things happening to her body she couldn’t describe.

A whirling fire blazed through her core to her heart. She was where she belonged in that moment, with this man. Her own impulsive nature, which she so despised, struck with a vengeance.

His tongue swept between her lips and into her mouth, officially taking command of her kiss, her body. Her reaction. Nothing belonged to her anymore. The sensations roaring through her stole even her ability to breathe on her own. As if he were the one breathing life into her blood, knowing she would expire on the spot if his tongue stopped stroking hers. Would freeze if he set her from the warmth she now embraced.

The world as she knew it ceased to exist. What would an affair of the heart hurt? The traitorous words whispered through her. As long as they were discreet —

She jerked her head back and fought the arms holding her. Her feet weren’t even touching the floor. “Set me down, you blackguard,” she ground out, disgust swamping her. To become his mistress stood against everything she believed of herself. The loss of her friends’ respect would crack her soul into a million pieces. She couldn’t do it.

Men may rule the world, but they did not rule her.

Confusion darkened his gray eyes to molten iron and she spun away. “I best check on Miss Hale.” Her words emerged more breathless than cool as she’d intended. “I’m sure you know the way out.” She turned for the door, anxious for escape before she either capitulated and ran back into his arms or burst into tears. Neither being an acceptable outcome to the tumult thundering through her.

“I came by for one other reason.” His words, calm as the ocean breeze, cut through the thinness of her frock, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Isabelle wishes to play for you. A musicale, if you will. And Julius…” He heaved in a breath and passed a palm over a face that looked as tired and haggard as she felt. His hand fell away and he speared her with a directness to rival her own. “I expect you’ll be returning to Stonemare. We’ve still to locate your ruby,” he said softly.

Yes . But not for that reason , she wanted to rail, but for you …

“Of course. I’ll return tomorrow. With Miss Hale,” she added harshly. “I don’t think she should be left alone.”

“Certainly not. As I said, I shall notify the parish constable regarding Chaston.”

Her insides softened. “I’m sure she’ll be grateful for your help.”

“Grateful?” For the first time since Mr. Oshea had arrived, a small smile tipped his lips. And the sight devastated her. Threatened the lifelong self-assured opinions she held herself to.

Oh, Mr. Oshea was a dangerous, dangerous man.

She strode to the door. “Until tomorrow, then.” Once outside the drawing room, she put her fingers to her sensitive lips and closed her eyes.

“Then I shall return for you in the morning, Miss Wimbley.” Soft yet steely determination sounded through the door. The words sent her scurrying up the stairs and to the safety of Miss Hale’s sharp, uncompromising rebukes.

Geneva deserved every lashing dished out for her own stupidity.

*

Geneva leaned back against the closed door in Miss Hale’s elegant chamber. “You should get out of that gown. I’m no lady’s maid. I dress myself, as I suspect you do.” She heaved a sigh. “But I’ll assist you if I must. Unless you’d like Pasha to assist you?”

“Don’t bother. I don’t wish to go back to Stonemare.” Miss Hale was curled in a ball of grievance upon her massive bed, her eyes and nose red from a treacherous bout of sobs.

The only way to handle a disaster of this magnitude was with a stern hand. It would be no different than dealing with an unwelcome situation on Berwick Street. “You do not have to go tonight. It’s much too late. We shall leave first thing tomorrow.”

Miss Hale shot to sitting and pointed at Geneva. Her normally perfect coiffure stuck out in various places. “I won’t, and you can’t force me.”

With narrowed eyes, Geneva drew on her Berwick Street firmness. “Oh, I can, and I will.” She stalked to the bed and grabbed Miss Hale by that finger. “You listen to me, Docia Hale. Miss— ” she said at the same instant Miss Hale did. Geneva inhaled a deep, steadying breath, wishing she possessed a modicum of Abra’s placid composure. “I will not allow you to remain here alone.” She let go of Miss Hale’s finger, went to the vanity, and poked around until she found a lace handkerchief. She stalked back to the bed where Miss Hale had lain back down, curled up in the ball again.

Geneva lay on the bed facing her and pressed the scrap in Miss Hale’s hand. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said gently. “But he’s been gone nigh on twenty years. If you force me to stay here with you, I shall make your life hell. Do not test me on this, Docia. I know what I’m about. Berwick Street is not Mayfair.”

“You don’t understand,” she mumbled into the hankie and, to Geneva’s surprise, the pretentious miss hadn’t corrected her name.

Geneva firmed her voice. “Everyone understands. The new earl and Mr. Oshea, er, Noah just lost their own father in a grisly manner. My father is dead too. Not so long ago as yours, perhaps. But…”

Docia rolled to her back and blew her nose. “How did he die? Your father, I mean.”

Obviously, bringing up that night and the knife would open Pandora’s Box. Geneva was already teetering on the sharp edge of that blade. “He was a sailor. Gone for months on end.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Gads, no. He was a horrid father. The times he was home, he lived in a tavern in Seven Dials, or so I’d heard.”

“I don’t wish to return to Stonemare. You can stay here. With me.”

How generous she was. “No. Mr. Oshea will be returning for us in the morning. Miss Isabelle wishes to host a musicale. We cannot possibly disappoint her.”

Docia rolled back to her side facing Geneva, her reddened eyes flashing. “I want my blue chamber back,” she said, sounding like a petulant child rather than a woman who’d reached her advancement at the age of thirty. In other words—more like herself.

“Bah. You’ll do fine in the Brimstone. It’s yellow. You like yellow.” She waved out her hand at the pale-gold curtains, the yellow chintz counterpane, the dress Docia had been wearing the morning Abra and Geneva had arrived at Stonemare that was now draped over the settee. “It’s everywhere.”

“I’m not going, I tell you.”

Geneva smiled, and it did not feel pleasant on her face. “Yes, you will. Let me tell you why. You are a bold woman, Docia. We are alike in that way, I think.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“Not in all ways,” Geneva conceded, considering her words. “It’s true you haven’t bested drunkards calling out the most appalling epithets, or boys with nimble fingers attempting to relieve you of your purse, or been subjected to bawdy remarks from corner-street prostitutes when you happen by.”

Docia bolted upright. “You haven’t!”

“I have and I survived. And, my dear, so shall you.”

Docia flopped back down, slamming her hands and kicking her feet on the mattress with a screech worthy of one of those prostitutes. “You’re a horrible person, Miss Wimbley.”

“Perhaps so. By the way, I give you leave to call me ‘Geneva,’” she said, grinning and laying her hand atop Docia’s. She squeezed her fingers. “As we are about to sleep together.”

Docia growled. “Dear heavens.”

A good sign . “Now, get some sleep. You look terrible. Note that I’m only telling you that out of the goodness of my heart.”

“What heart?” Docia muttered, her fingers squeezing back.

Interestingly, she didn’t retrieve her hand, drawing a smile from Geneva.