The Necklace Page 7

  Mr. Dacy choked on his soup. Then he cast such a dark glance in her direction that she hurriedly turned toward the door.

  “Roast beef!” he roared at her back. “I expect it rare, too!”

  After their brief argument about his nutritional requirements, she didn’t have the courage to inform him of either his new clothing or his valet. Particularly after she ignored his request for roast beef and returned that evening carrying a second tray containing another bowl of chowder and a pitcher of weak tea laced with lemon and honey.

  He wasn’t going to get a fever from over-eating and rage at her about it.

  She returned to find him sitting up in bed, his face set in lines of aggravated suffering.

  And apparently, he hadn’t discovered the packages littering every horizontal surface around him because there wasn’t a stitch of clothing on him. While it was good that he’d spent the intervening hours sleeping, he could at least have roused himself enough to throw on a linen shirt.

  Particularly if he wanted her to believe he was well enough to eat rare roast beef.

  She flushed at the sight of his bare chest and averted her eyes. Her cheeks grew warm as she arranged the tray on a small table near the bed. She was uncomfortably aware of every movement he made. Every rustle of the bed sheet made her pause and close her eyes, afraid of what—or how much—she would see if she turned her head.

  “There you are.” She straightened. She looked at him, determined to keep her eyes fixed on his face, and only his face.

  “Well, I hope she’s happy.” He eyed her.

  His hard expression when he hefted his wallet in one lean hand increased her nervousness. Her eyes shifted sideways toward the foot of the bed. She had no idea how to reply to his extraordinary statement.

  When he threw the wallet onto the table beside his bed, he knocked a large, brown-papered parcel to the floor. She jumped and stared at the package, hoping he would notice it and understand that he ought to at least don a shirt.

  “She?” she asked at last, dragging her eyes away from the bundle. Then miraculously she remembered his dog. Perhaps he hadn’t been upset about his lightened purse after all. He simply woke up and missed his dog. “Oh, yes. She’s looking quite nice now. It’s a pity about her leg, though. How did it happen?”

  “How should I know?” He stared at the bowl of chowder and his expression darkened. “She was fine when I saw her last.”

  “I beg your pardon, but I fail to see how she could have been fine. That leg has been missing for quite some time. As well as most of her left ear, I might add.”

  “What? Strange I never noticed that. She hid it well.”

  “Since you failed to discern that ‘he’ was a ‘she,’ I’m hardly surprised you failed to notice.”

  His expression faltered. “Miss Archer, I was referring to your sister. She appears to have run through the better part of twenty-five pounds to purchase a few ounces of tea.”

  “My sister?” she asked, aghast. Surely, Helen hadn’t spent that much on a bonnet!

  “You said she hurt her leg?”

  Belatedly, she remembered Joshua’s purchases. She drew herself up to her fullest height and fixed him with a stern gaze. “Sir, I was not discussing my sister—”

  The glacial look in his eyes halted her. It was quite evident—at least to her—why her uncle frequently called Mr. Dacy ‘Chil.’

  “Then who the hel—ah—who were you discussing?” he asked in an overly patient voice.

  “Josephine.”

  “Napoleon’s wife is missing a leg? When did that happen?” He dropped his gaze and rubbed the old scar on his forehead wearily as if it troubled him.

  Her hands twitched. She almost stepped forward to stroke his forehead. But when she caught his glance, she folded her hands resolutely at her waist. If she escaped now, perhaps he would forget about the money. And when she returned to retrieve his tray, he might be in a better mood.

  Or she could slip him a few drops of the laudanum her mother had left behind.

  “Mr. Dacy, you’re obviously still suffering from your wounds. Perhaps I should leave—”

  “No—no—wait. Don’t leave.”

  As the echo of his words faded, a look of shock passed over his face, leaving it a sickly grayish-white. Then a slow flush of awareness stained his cheekbones.

  Her folded hands tightened at her waist, and she waited.

  He glanced at her. Then his dark brows snapped down. The scar bisecting his brow grew whiter, enhancing his resemblance to a savage buccaneer to such a degree that she took a step back.

  “We were discussing my dog, were we not?” he finally asked in a tired voice.

  She nodded and moved slightly closer to the door.

  “Thank you for explaining.”

  “You’re welcome.” Relief filled her. He hadn’t leapt up to strangle her. Perhaps the situation wasn’t so dire.

  “However, I would still like to know why your sister spent nearly twenty-five pounds for tea.”

  Her heart stopped beating long enough for her to feel dizzy, but after a long moment, she rallied. “She didn’t spend twenty-five pounds. It only cost five.”

  “Five? For tea?”

  “Do not be absurd. There was the bonnet and some muslin, as well. And I believe she also mentioned a few ribbons. There might have been a few other items, but I am unsure at the moment.” When his eyes hardened once more, she hurried on. “We fully intend to repay you.”

  “If your sister spent five, what happened to the other twenty?”

  “Uncle John had nothing to fit you. You could hardly expect to walk around without proper attire.” What on earth had Joshua bought?

  He sat up straighter in bed. The sheets pooled over his lap and her eyes drifted down the fascinating line of dark hair in the center of his taut stomach. Her cheeks flushed as her body grew oddly warm.

  When she glanced up, she caught a sinister gleam in the depths of his gray eyes. Quite certain she blushed, her hand rose involuntarily to her bosom.

  Snatching it away, she clasped both hands tightly in front of her again. Her eyes lingered one last moment on his shoulders before she resolutely turned to face the half-opened doorway.

  Unfortunately, his image seemed to hover in front of her. It shimmered like the devil himself separating her from the cool hallway beyond.

  Her heart thudded. “Mr. Dacy, please—”

  “What is it now?”

  “Sir, your sheet...” Her voice strangled.

  From the insolent tone of his voice, he knew perfectly well what was wrong. She coughed and stared at the round porcelain doorknob. It was white, cool and oddly soothing. She imagined the slick, cold surface in the palm of her hand as she desperately tried to forget the warmth of his chest.

  Her hands twitched nervously in the direction of the door.

  “Sir,” she said, frantic to change the subject to something less provocative. “How did you meet my uncle? I do not recall him mentioning you before.”

  “Ummm,” he said unhelpfully.

  “I beg your pardon? I’m afraid I did not hear you clearly.”

  “Perhaps you’re hard of hearing and should turn around to face me.”

  “My hearing is perfectly adequate, sir.”

  “Are you afraid to face me?”

  “I am not, but you’re not dressed. This is all quite improper.”

  “That was my thought when you tucked me into bed, Miss Archer.”

  A burning fire raged up her bosom, scorching her neck and cheeks. She had sincerely hoped he wouldn’t remember.

  After a dreadfully long silence, she said, “If you will recall, you were actually unconscious a great deal of the time.”

  The bed creaked behind her. At the noise, she instinctively turned.

  He lounged against the stack of pillows with his hands locked behind his head. Another fiery wave cascaded over her cheeks as her eyes followed that line down his chest again. The sheet had slipped e
ven further. It barely covered his lap. A thin line of bandage was visible at the top of his thigh where an insolent corner of the sheet had flipped over.

  “And how, precisely, should I recall it if I was unconscious at the time? All I remember is you unfastening my breeches—”

  “Sir, it was an unfortunate circumstance that we must all strive to avoid in the future,” she hurriedly interrupted him.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a worse fate than being stripped, bathed, and put to bed by a pretty woman.”

  “You are obviously suffering from some pernicious form of delirium. I never bathed you. But, I shall send Joshua up to you directly if you desire to wash.” She spun and worked very hard to walk—not run—out of the door.

  His deep chuckles raced after her, despite the fact that she slammed the door shut behind her.

  In the safety of the hallway, she literally ran into her uncle. He caught her by the wrist to steady her, a speculative gleam sparkling in his brown eyes.

  “Seeing to Mr. Dacy?” he asked.

  “Yes, Uncle John. He’s just eating.” She glanced back to make sure Mr. Dacy’s door was firmly closed. Then, as an extra precaution, she tucked her hand through her uncle’s crooked elbow and guided him further down the corridor. “I must speak with you.”

  “Now? I was going to visit Mr. Dacy.”

  She noted the outline of a pack of cards in her uncle’s capacious pocket and shook her head. “Please, just one moment. I really must talk to you—”

  “Well, be quick about it.” He shook her off and smoothed the line of his sleeve.

  “This Mr. Dacy—what do you know of him? Where did you meet?”

  “At my club, of course!” Her uncle’s eyes fixed on a spot above her head, and he rocked slightly back on his heels.

  “Your club? Which club?”

  His gaze drifted down to his fingernails where he suddenly seemed to find a very troublesome hangnail. He bit it off. “Is that all?”

  A fleeting thought about all the hangnails in the Archer family raced through her mind. They definitely needed some alum before they all bled to death.

  She studied her uncle’s carefully blank face before she replied. “No, it is not. You haven’t answered my question. Which club?”

  “I can hardly remember, my dear. White’s perhaps. Or one of the others. What difference does it make?”

  “I do not think he’s a gentleman, dearest Uncle, so it could hardly have been White’s. Try to remember—where did you meet him?”

  “This is ridiculous. He is my friend, and that is all there is to it. His lineage is unimportant.”

  “I think it is very important. In fact, I don’t think you should trust him.”

  Her uncle raised an astonished brow. “Of course I can trust him, my dear. You forget yourself. I am an excellent judge of character, and he is a fine young man. A little hot-headed perhaps, but military men often are.”

  “Military?” Oh, no. Surely, this couldn’t possibly get any worse. What had her uncle done to involve the military? “Are you sure he’s in the military?”

  “Is, or was. Quite sure.”

  God help them. “Be that as it may, that is not the point I was trying to make.” Desperation clipped her voice. She refused to be diverted into a discussion about the military. At least for the moment.

  “Well, then be quick about it. I cannot stand about in hallways while you prattle on about your entirely unsubstantiated fears.”

  “My fears are not unsubstantiated. Have you forgotten the Bow Street runner who visited us last year?”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten. It was a trifling incident that came to naught. Why refine upon it? I am—and was—as innocent as a babe. Now, if you have any concerns, I wish you would state them clearly.” A patently false note of bewilderment filled Uncle John’s voice.

  Taking a step back, she shook her head. She breathed deeply and struggled not to lose her temper. “I’m afraid you’ve run loose again and done something which has brought the law down upon our heads. Haven’t you considered that Mr. Dacy might have joined Bow Street after leaving the military? Precisely what activities were you pursuing in London before Helen found you?”

  “I assure you, I have done nothing you or Helen should concern yourselves over.”

  This ambiguous statement didn’t reassure her. “But what about Mr. Dacy?”

  “Do not concern yourself over him, either.”

  “I am worried—please be careful, Uncle. Please.”

  Uncle John laughed and moved away lightly. “I don’t fear the law, and Mr. Dacy is quite honorable. I trust him implicitly, Oriana. Am I not a good judge of character? Didn’t I warn you about that jackass, Willowby, who acted in such a deplorable fashion with your maid?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” She angled away from him, wishing everyone would forget her unfortunate and short-lived engagement.

  Her uncle had been most vociferous in his disgust with her decision to accept Lord Willowby for the sake of the Archer family finances. However, despite the vaunted Willowby wealth, she couldn’t stomach his brief but intense encounters with nearly all the female members of her household. She would have put an end to the engagement and suffered the humiliating consequences eventually.

  She knew that.

  She just wished he hadn't forced her to make that decision in front of her mother and aunt.

  “Nonetheless, we mustn’t forget the runners. Or the Excise.”

  “Do you see any law officers or Excise?”

  “No, not yet. But what if you’re wrong?”

  “When have I ever been wrong, I should like to know?”

  “When, indeed.” She helplessly watched her uncle stroll toward Mr. Dacy’s room.

  He stopped in front of the door and turned to smile at her, patting the packet of cards in his pocket.

  Oh, please, Oriana prayed. Don’t let him lose. We owe Mr. Dacy far too much already.

  Chapter Six

  A Preemptive Bid

  Chilton regretted embarrassing Miss Archer, but it served its intended purpose. He could think of no other way to avoid the ticklish question of how he met her uncle. He had the distinct impression the Archer women didn’t approve of their uncle’s diversions, and he couldn’t blame them. They would undoubtedly be unhappy to learn that he met John Archer over a pair of dice in one of the seediest men's clubs in London.

  And for some reason, he didn’t want Miss Archer to think ill of him. Or at least, more poorly than she already did.

  Why in God’s name had he agreed to wear those abysmal clothes? What was she thinking of him?

  Even worse, he knew she would be horrified to learn he was there for the sole purpose of stealing his step-mother’s vowel from Mr. Archer—a tricky maneuver that hovered horribly close to acting dishonorably. A debt of honor should always be paid. He could only hope that his stepmother had indeed been the victim of fraud and not simply a bad loser.

  And of course, there was an additional complication. If Archer had indeed engaged in fraud, then he ought to deliver the old gentleman to the law. But it bothered him to think of John Archer transported, locked in prison, or hung.

  The thought of Miss Archer’s reaction should her uncle be arrested depressed him further. She had been kind to him and nursed him, despite what she must think of a man dressed in rags and sporting a bullet wound in his thigh.

  Maybe he could forget about the law and Archer's fraud if he could just get the vowel back.

  Even that didn't lighten his mood, however. The Archers had trusted and accepted him. Such gifts were rare in Chilton’s world. In fact, he couldn’t remember encountering them, before, even at home. Or perhaps more especially at home.

  A deep longing burned in his gut. He fumbled with his soup before dropping the spoon with a clatter. Then he took a long drink of the weak tea. The scent of roses lingered on the linen spread out on the tray, filling the air around him. The fragrance brought back the memory of Miss
Archer’s smiling eyes. They seemed to gleam back at him from the depths of the tea with warmth and acceptance.

  He drained the beverage and set the cup down with a snap. He would find the vowel, steal it back, and then slip away before anyone was the wiser.

  If he failed, he would replenish his purse somehow and pay off his debt to his father that way. Surely, Chichester would forget about Mr. Archer if Edward retained the farm.

  And then Chilton could forget the Archers. He would ask Castlereagh for another assignment as soon as he got back to London. Life would go on as it always had.

  Determined to avoid distraction, he finished the last of the soup. Leaning back, he glanced around the room. A number of brown paper-wrapped parcels covered every horizontal surface like fall leaves scattered over the ground. One had even fallen to the floor next to his bed. He hooked a finger through the string of the one on the carpet and lifted it.

  He ripped through the paper and found a white linen shirt and several starched stocks neatly tucked inside. With a chuckle, he remembered Miss Archer’s flushed cheeks and her sidelong, gleaming gaze.

  He shifted uncomfortably in the over-warm bed and fingered the hem of the shirt. He really shouldn’t have treated Miss Archer the way he had. But his vanity couldn’t resist after the first blush stained her gently rounded cheeks. He remembered the way her brown eyes flashed with heat before she pursed her plump, soft mouth and glanced away.

  It had been a long time since a respectable woman looked at him with anything like desire. He rubbed the scar over his forehead, feeling the pressure building up and edging toward a headache.

  He didn’t want to think about women. They certainly preferred not to consider him. Even the most rabid, marriage-minded mammas had long ago begun to shepherd their daughters firmly away from his path. Those who coveted the Chichester holdings were targeting Edward and willing to wait for Chilton to remove himself through mischance.

  The only women who eyed him now were trying to assess the weight of his purse.

  But not Miss Archer. He had seen the warmth in her eyes and felt that spark of attraction. He knew the reason for her blushes. For all the good it would do him.