Chapter 15
When Whiddon recovered enough to roll over and take stock, he was both mortified and relieved to find he’d been dumped onto the pavement before his own house. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled to the door and kicked it repeatedly.
It took several long, agonizing moments before Old Alf answered. “Your lordship!” He blinked in shock as Whiddon pushed past him.
“My hands! Set me free, quickly!”
“Yes, my lord.” Alf hesitated, shifting back and forth, clearly at a loss, before departing in the direction of the dining room. He came back with a small, sharp fruit knife.
Whiddon spun around. “Quickly, man.” His mind whirled as the footman sawed at the ropes binding him, trying to think past the pain in his head. He’d just worked his hands free when Charlotte came rushing down the stairs, the hall boy in her wake.
“Gabriel! What is it?” She paused, aghast, then surged toward him. “You are bleeding! Have you other injuries? What’s happened?”
“No, no. I’m fine. It’s just a bump on the head.” He moved past her toward the stairs. “Where is Chapman? Send him to me. Tell him I need him at once.”
He had to pause on the landing and clutch his head. God’s teeth, the pain felt like a knife stabbing into his skull. Sucking in a breath, he hurried on. Someone else had the list. It was the only explanation. Someone had the list and was contacting the people on it.
Charlotte followed him into his room. “We must talk. And sit down. That wound is still bleeding. It needs seen to.”
“Not now, Charlotte.”
“Now,” she said firmly. “The time for secrets is over.”
He groaned. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You’d better make time, for I’ve had enough. Oh, and I have a message for you.”
He stilled. “From whom?”
“A young woman. Dark hair, dark eyes. Pale skin and a particularly filthy grasp of French vernacular.”
He did sink into a chair, then. “Here? She came here?”
“Yes. I’m to tell you that she wants her brooch. Blue enamel and rose diamonds. Your representative told her you don’t have it, but she doesn’t believe him. She thinks you kept it, to give to me.”
He cursed under his breath. “This is bad. Very bad.”
“It is,” she agreed. “She also said her father intends to kill you, should you keep hanging around.”
He started to rise, but the room began to spin.
Making a noise of alarm, she pushed him back down. “Enough. We are going to take care of this first.” She opened the door, called for Margie and ordered hot water, clean linen and hot, sugared tea.
“Where’s Chapman?” He closed his eyes against the streak of pain behind his eyes.
“I believe he went out soon after you did.”
He began to rise again. “There’s something I must find.”
She put her hands on his shoulders to keep him in place, then sat on his lap for good measure. “In a moment.” Carefully, she began to brush the hair away from the wound on his head. “You’ve got a knot growing here.” Her fingers extended the careful strokes into a caress. Each one seemed to draw away a bit more of the pain.
He didn’t want to relax beneath her soothing touch, but it felt so good, and her face was so determined and full of concern. When was the last time anyone had comforted him like this? Never. He was used to dealing with his own pain, to solving his own problems, and others’ besides. He sighed. It was better that way, in any case. Safer. He didn’t want to come to depend on something or someone who wouldn’t be there the next time.
But she smelled so damned good. And her bosom was right there before him. Longing flooded him, as fierce and painful as the throbbing in his skull. He eased it by leaning forward, pressing his face into her soft curves and inhaling deeply.
Her fingers stilled. Rose water. Chalk. Lemon. And just . . . fresh, sweet Charlotte. His hands rose up to skim her waist and explore those curves.
The door banged open, and Margie came in, her hands full, trailing maids. Charlotte started to rise from his lap, but he tightened his grip on her.
