Mistress by Midnight

Hammond permitted himself a small, wintry smile that was nevertheless full of satisfaction. “Aye, your grace. Normally it would take me—” he paused “—oh, at least a day to come up with that information. But Lady Merryn Fenner works for Tom Bradshaw and we like to keep an eye on his business.” He waited, then as Garrick looked blank: “Bradshaw the inquiry agent, your grace. A rival company.” For a moment Garrick thought Hammond was about to spit but he clearly thought better of it in the ducal library. “Bradshaw’s a cocky fellow,” Hammond said. “Smooth as you like, but bent as a guinea note. A good job you didn’t approach him with your inquiry, sir. He would have taken your money and spun you a line.”

Garrick frowned. Oddly the thought of his midnight visitor working for a corrupt inquiry agent filled him with a strange sense of protectiveness. Merryn Fenner had seemed too innocent and too honest to be mixed up in crooked business. But clearly his instinct about her was wildly astray. She had broken into his house, after all, had been searching his library and his study and his bedroom. She was not a sheltered debutante. She was a burglar and very possibly a thief.

“So you knew,” Garrick said slowly, “that Lady Merryn Fenner had broken in here last night because you were watching her?”

“One of my men reported it,” Hammond said. “She’s been here every night for the past five days.”

Five days. Sleeping in his bed.

Garrick thought of the slide of the sheet against his body and Merryn’s scent enveloping him, soft, sensuous, seductive.

Five days. Searching his papers.

She had nerve. He would give her that. He thought about what Lady Merryn Fenner might be hunting at Farne House. The conclusion was inescapable. The connection between the two of them was her brother. The object of her search therefore must be something to do with Stephen’s death.

He got to his feet abruptly and strode over to the fire, stirring it to flame with his booted foot. The logs settled with a hiss.

He had feared this for twelve years. His father had told him that the matter was settled, all witnesses paid off, all evidence destroyed, all those who needed protection kept safe. The Earl of Fenner, Kitty’s father Lord Scott, and the Duke of Farne had buried the matter so deep they had believed it could never be revived. Manifestly, however, that was not true. Something—or someone—had started to stir matters up. It could be Merryn Fenner herself, he supposed, embittered over her brother’s death, bearing him an understandable and very real grudge. Or there could be more to this, someone else behind it, someone pulling Merryn’s strings perhaps. For the sake of all those who depended on him, he had to find out.

He turned to Hammond, who had been watching him gravely and in silence.

“This Bradshaw,” he said. “What do you know about him?”

Hammond laughed. “That he’s a bad lot. Brought up on the streets, knows the rookeries like the back of his hand. Made a bit of money—best not ask how—set himself up in business, not too fussy about the cases he takes if the payment is right.” He shrugged. “Rough, tough …”

“Dangerous to know?” Garrick said ironically.

“Without a doubt, your grace.”

Garrick pulled a face. There was no immediately obvious reason why Tom Bradshaw should be interested in a twelve-year-old duel so perhaps Merryn Fenner really was the instigator in this.

“I need to know where Lady Merryn plans to be tomorrow,” he said. Then, as Hammond nodded, “and I need to know more about Tom Bradshaw. Anything you think might be useful.”

“Aye, your grace,” the man said.

“Thank you, Hammond,” Garrick said. “You have proved yourself invaluable.”

Hammond grinned. It was startling and not particularly pretty. “Bradshaw thinks he’s the best,” the man said with satisfaction. “But he ain’t.”

“Of course, if Bradshaw spies on you as you spy on him,” Garrick said gently, “he will know all about our meeting.”

After Pointer had shown the inquiry agent out, disapproval in every quivering line of his body, Garrick went back to the desk and took out the papers relating to the Fenner estate, weighing them in his hand. Merryn Fenner would know that his father had profiteered from her brother’s death by buying up the family estate. It would be another reason for her to hate everything that the name of Farne stood for.

Tomorrow, he thought, he would seek Merryn out. He would find out what she knew and what she intended to do. He swore softly under his breath. Merryn Fenner had been determined and passionate and, he would wager, a total innocent. There was no more dangerous combination than honesty and passion when it came to someone set on discovering the truth. And he could never allow that truth to come to light.

MERRYN SMOOTHED DOWN her plain blue pelisse and took a slightly tighter grip on the worn leather handle of her briefcase. This afternoon she was very much in her own character, bluestocking and avid student of literature. She had arranged to visit the Octagon Library to peruse the catalog of periodicals in the collection. Alongside his extensive collections of classical, English and Italian literature, King George III had a rather less august selection of newspapers and periodicals. It was in one such obscure publication that Merryn hoped to find another reference to her brother’s death that might bear out the details in the Dorset newspaper Tom had found. Most reports she had read reported the official line on the duel but one or two might have written the truth—before the Farne family clamped down, suppressed the real version of events and paid off anyone who might have proved awkward.

“This way please, madam,” the clerk said respectfully, gesturing her through a doorway on the right and into the most marvelous library she had ever seen. “Sir Frederick will be with you shortly.”

The room was magnificent. Light fell from windows high in the octagonal white dome of the ceiling. On all eight walls the bookshelves stretched above head height with a wrought-iron balcony and further shelves on the first floor. Merryn had never seen quite such an impressive library. If she browsed for years she knew she could never be sated.

Sir Frederick Barnard, the King’s librarian, came over to shake her by the hand and lead her across to a seat at the center table. She had already written to ask for permission to scrutinize the catalog and she saw that it was now laid out in front of her. Sir Frederick explained how the entries were compiled then left her to leaf through at her leisure. A deep peace settled over the room, the sort of reflective silence that one found in libraries, broken only by the rustle of pages and the soft footfall as Sir Frederick or one of his clerks trod quietly across from one shelf to another.

After about ten minutes, however, a gentleman took the seat opposite Merryn. He was tall and broad, no dandy but elegant enough in a plain jacket and pristine buckskins. His hair, an unusual dark red, was disordered by the wind rather than the ministrations of his valet, and as she watched he raised a hand and smoothed it down. Then he looked up and his eyes met hers. They were deep brown eyes and so dark that they were unreadable.

Garrick Farne. The Duke of Farne was here, in the King’s Library.

Merryn’s heart stuttered for an instant and then began to race. She tilted her head down deliberately so that the rim of her bonnet sheltered her face from view. She knew that she had blushed. Or perhaps she had turned pale; she was not sure which, only that she felt hot even though her fingers seemed icy cold. Her hands shook a little, sending the precious documents scattering to the floor. A soft-footed clerk came forward to retrieve them and she murmured an apology. She had to compose herself. This was foolish, to be disturbed simply because Garrick Farne was sitting opposite her. He could not possibly know that she was the woman who had been in his bedroom two nights ago. Then she had been covered in dust and cobwebs. He had not even been able to see if she were young or old. That was the beauty of her indeterminate appearance. She was completely unmemorable.

And if he challenged her she had simply to deny it. She was Lady Merryn Fenner. She did not disport herself in men’s bedrooms in the dead of night.

Even so, it was the first time that anyone had come close to unmasking her and she felt anxious. Her fingers slipped and slid on the parchment and she found it unconscionably difficult to concentrate. She could walk out, of course. She could simply get to her feet, tell the librarian that she had a headache and would return on another occasion. Except that that would look odd given that she had been there only five minutes. And it was poor-spirited, and she was no such thing. She, Merryn Fenner, was scared of nobody and nothing. Gentlemen of the ton, in particular, held neither fascination nor danger for her. She had their measure. They never discomposed her. Only this man, with his perceptive gaze and his effortlessly authoritative presence, seemed to be able to disturb her, and that was only because for the past twelve years he had haunted her thoughts, and now that she knew that he had lied about her brother’s death she wanted to take from him everything he had—friends, reputation, respect.

She tried not to look at Garrick and found it disturbingly difficult. How had he known she would be at the Octagon Library today? It could be no coincidence. He was already a step ahead of her. A horrid thought struck her. Perhaps Garrick had gone to an inquiry agent like Tom and asked them to identify her. Merryn had no illusions about the sort of information that could be bought—or suppressed, for that matter—with enough money. She had seen it happen time and again.

She risked a glance at Garrick underneath the brim of her hat and then wished that she had not. He was not reading. His book lay discarded to one side, his quill idle on the desk.

He was watching her.

His gaze was thoughtful as it rested on her. It felt oddly as though he were studying her, learning her by heart. His eyes moved over her features, one by one: her hair, beneath the dowdy blue bonnet, the curve of her cheek, her mouth. He seemed to pause there for an inordinate amount of time and Merryn felt tightness in her chest and a constriction in her breathing. Her skin felt too sensitive, prickling from his nearness. It was odd and disconcerting. She kept her gaze on the page in front of her although the words danced before her eyes and made no sense. She knew even with her eyes averted that he was still watching her; she could feel his gaze like a physical touch, stroking her cheek, sliding along the smooth line of her jaw, brushing her lips like a kiss.

She caught her breath on the thought and, unable to resist the unspoken demand he was making, she looked up and met his eyes.

He was not looking at her at all. He was writing with every appearance of concentration. And as Merryn drew back, frowning a little, her body still humming with awareness, he glanced up and caught her staring. He raised one brow in a quizzical way Merryn could only categorize as insolent. A small smile tilted the corners of his firm mouth, a smile of such masculine self-satisfaction that she wanted to slap him.

Her face flaming, she bent furiously over the periodicals again. The Dorchester Advertiser, the Bournemouth Intelligencer … Not a single reference to Stephen’s death. It was as though he had been eradicated completely, as though he had never existed. She felt enraged. There was nothing for her here.

Then she had a thought, a flash of an idea. She turned back to the London periodicals for July 1802 with their record of routs and parties, events and guest lists. The season had been ending, the last glittering balls taking place before town emptied for the summer. And there on the guest list for a dinner at Lord and Lady Denman’s house on the night of July 25 was Chuffy Wallington, Stephen’s friend, the man who was supposed to have been his second at the fateful duel, who could not possibly have been in Dorset during the afternoon yet at a dinner in London that same evening …

Merryn’s hand shook so much as she scribbled down the details that her writing was barely legible. She closed the book carefully and got to her feet. She felt exhausted, her head aching. It was only a tiny scrap of evidence but it felt monumental to her, another fragment in the jigsaw that painted a very different picture of the events on the day of Stephen’s death.

She shuffled the papers together and got to her feet, placing the precious piece of paper in her pocket.

“I apologize,” she said to the hovering clerk. “I fear that I cannot concentrate further this morning. I will call to arrange another appointment. Good day and thank you for your assistance.”

She turned to go. Garrick Farne had not moved, not shown by one flicker of a muscle that he had even noticed her departure. Merryn slapped her gloves into the palm of her other hand and stalked toward the door. She resisted the urge to look back at Garrick even though she was sure he was watching her. Her nape tickled with awareness and the goose bumps rose over her whole body.

She was within three feet of the door when Garrick stepped out from behind the nearest bookcase and directly into her path.

NOW THAT SHE WAS CLEAN and it was daylight, Garrick could see that Lady Merryn Fenner was everything that he had imagined the previous night. She was a perfect miniature, tiny, blonde, beautiful. And she had the most vivid blue eyes that he had ever seen. There was something fierce in them, a challenge that was curiously at odds with the shabby bluestocking garb she wore. Her strength of character and intense spirit made a mockery of the dull blue gown, the dowdy bonnet and the demure gloves and reticule. They were just local color, disguise even. Garrick could see through her at once. She was not a simple society miss.

She had told him the previous night that she was five and twenty. It surprised him. He thought she looked younger. She was a good actress, he thought. That night in his bedroom she had looked small and defenseless, like the waif from the streets she claimed to be. He had been halfway to believing her story that she was homeless and in need of shelter. Had it not been for the cut-glass accent and the high quality of her gown he might have fallen for the lie. She was like quicksilver, changeable, slipping through his fingers. She had run from him before. This time, though, she would not escape.

He could see that she had absolutely no desire to speak with him. The stiffness with which she held herself and her furtive glances toward the nearest exit told him she wanted nothing more than to flee. That was understandable. And this was not, perhaps, the best place to force a confrontation, in the august surroundings of the King’s Library, with the King’s librarian and his assistants watching avidly from behind a stack of books. But that was too bad. He could not risk her running out on him again.

Her scent, that elusive fragrance of bluebells, wrapped about him and made his body clench with longing. Even without Hammond’s information Garrick thought that he would have known at once that she was the woman he had found in his bedroom, the woman who had slept in his bed, an intimacy that had haunted his thoughts ever since. He could picture Merryn between his sheets all too easily, her slight, lissom body lying where his had lain, her hair spread across his pillow, and her bare skin against the cool linen. He felt as though she had somehow imprinted herself on him and he could not break free.

She was looking at him with impatience and disdain, as though he was some importunate suitor or writer of particularly bad sonnets.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said easily, “in case I was the cause of your distraction this morning.”

He saw her bite her lip and knew that she was caught between the desire to give him a set down for his presumption and the equally strong desire to cut him dead and run away. The latter urge won out.

“I am sorry,” she said, “that it is quite impossible for me to talk to a gentleman to whom I have not been formally introduced. Excuse me.”

She made to pass him but Garrick put a hand on her arm. He lowered his voice and spoke softly in her ear. “Some might say that our informal introduction—in my bedroom two nights ago—would suffice as a basis for our acquaintance.”

He saw that she was a little shocked at his direct approach. No doubt she had not expected him to be quite so blunt. Gentlemen, generally, did not speak so frankly to a lady. Her body stiffened, her blue gaze narrowed. Her perfect bow of a mouth pursed in a way that made Garrick want to kiss her. The urge hit him hard, squarely in the stomach. He felt as though the breath had been knocked from his lungs, felt a hot pull of desire that went straight to his head and also lower down as well.

Something of his feelings must have shown in his face for he saw the blue of Merryn’s eyes heat and intensify for a moment as though responding to his need. Her lips parted on a tiny, startled gasp. He took a step forward, narrowing the distance between them to nothing. But already she was retreating, slipping away, the shimmer of desire in her eyes banished by cold disdain.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I think you mistake me for quite another lady.” There was the slightest emphasis on the word lady. “I am not the sort of woman to be found in any man’s bedchamber. That would be most inappropriate.”

She turned toward the door again and Garrick leaned one hand against the jamb to bar her way. “You ran away last time,” he said. “You are not going to do so now.”

Her blue eyes flashed ice. “I do not take direction from you, your grace.”

“So you do at least know who I am,” Garrick said gently. “I thought you were claiming that we had never met?”

She looked irritated to have been caught out. “I heard Sir Frederick mention your name, that is all.”

Garrick smiled. “How disappointing to discover that you did not deliberately seek to learn my identity,” he murmured.

She flicked him a look of polite scorn. “I am sure that your grace’s self-confidence will survive the blow.”

“I know your name, too,” Garrick said. “You are Lady Merryn Fenner.”

Now there was no doubting her dismay. She stiffened. Her lips pressed together in annoyance. Then she raised her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. She did not deny it.

“I am,” she said. “I am Merryn Fenner.”

Garrick admired both her frankness and her intellect. In that second she had evidently weighed up the fact that he knew her true identity and she had decided that there was nothing to be gained in denying it. Garrick doubted, however, that he had won anything beyond that one point. Merryn Fenner, he was beginning to suspect, would be a stimulating adversary.

There was a silence, as though she was waiting for him to say something. Garrick wondered if she expected him to apologize. He regretted Stephen Fenner’s death every day but any conventional words of condolence would seem at best hollow, at worst hypocritical. And he doubted that any words of his would make the slightest difference to Merryn’s feelings. He had killed Stephen. She hated him for it. He could tell. He could feel the emotion in her, heated, dark, driven.

“What were you doing in my house?” he asked. “Were you telling the truth when you said you were homeless? Sleeping on the streets? Forced to take shelter where you can?”

For a moment his imagination presented him with appalling scenes of the Fenner girls destitute because of his actions all those years before. He had known that the Earl had died a bare year after his son and heir but he had not known what had happened to the daughters. He had been living in exile then, trying to come to terms with the fact that he had failed to save Kitty from the demons and the misery that had haunted her, trying to die in the service of his country and salvage some honor from disaster.

Merryn Fenner was looking at him thoughtfully with those blue, blue eyes. “It is true that my sisters and I lost our fortunes after our father died,” she said, and the guilt that stalked Garrick’s footsteps tugged at him again.

“But that is not the reason that I … borrowed … your bed,” she finished. She turned away slightly, picking up a book from the stack on the table beside them, absently fingering the spine. “I was making a point.” She cast him a glance under her lashes. “Farne House is defenseless, your grace, easily taken.” Her voice was soft. If it had been anyone else Garrick would have thought she was making idle conversation but when she looked up and met his gaze her eyes were fierce. “You should be careful,” she said, “that your secrets are not so … vulnerable.”

Garrick straightened, his eyes narrowing. It was extraordinary that the conversation had moved so swiftly. Lady Merryn Fenner wasted no time. And she was very open in her hostility to him. He suspected that it was because she felt so strongly. He had met men who were as direct but seldom a woman. And with Merryn there was something else, some powerful bond between them that was as undeniable as it was unexpected. Perhaps it had been kindled by her hatred of him, but whatever the cause, it burned in her like a cold flame.

“Are you threatening me, Lady Merryn?” he asked slowly.

“I would do nothing so vulgar as to make threats.” She gave him a proper smile this time. It lit her eyes, making them even more spectacular. “I am warning you,” she said, “that those matters you thought were long buried are going to come out into the light and then …” She shrugged. “Well, you risk losing many of the things that you value, I think.”

“And what do you think that I value?” Garrick asked.

He saw the tiny frown that touched her forehead as she realized that she did not actually know, that she had made assumptions. “Your title? Your fortune?” she hazarded. “Your life?”

“Your title, your fortune, your life …”

Garrick cared little for the Dukedom, beyond the fact that he had a responsibility to all the people who served it. He had often wished it away, thought that one of his younger brothers would have relished the role so much more than he, would have sat in the House of Lords and reveled in his own pomp. As for his fortune, it enabled him to do the things that he wanted and it would be an ungrateful man who did not value that. It also enabled him to protect those who needed him. And then there was his life … He smiled ironically. After Stephen Fenner had died he had thought his life worth nothing. He had tried to discard it on many occasions. He could find nothing to do with it, no matter how he tried. He wondered sometimes if that was his penance for killing a man—that no matter how he tried to atone, nothing would seem good enough, no purpose great enough.

“Do you intend to take those things from me?” he asked now. “Do you seek my death? Because I killed your brother and ruined your life?”

Merryn did not flinch at his deliberately brutal choice of words. She put the book back on the pile very precisely. “Yes,” she said. “I loved my brother and I believe that he deserves justice.” For a moment Garrick saw her glacial coolness splinter into a thousand tiny fragments of pain. “I want to take everything away from you, your grace,” she said. “We lost everything because of you. You deserve to know how that feels.”

Garrick kept his eyes on her face. “What do you intend to do?” he asked.

She raised her brows. “I intend to find out the truth,” she said. “I know there was no duel. I know you shot Stephen in cold blood. I am going to find out what really happened and then …” She stopped and Garrick wondered if she really had the hardihood to go through with it, to see him hang. He saw her swallow hard, saw a tremor go through her.

“And then you will hand the evidence to the authorities and watch me swing on the end of a silken rope,” he said.

Her gaze jerked up. “I …” She blinked. Her gaze locked with his. There was confusion in the depths of her eyes. She looked very young. Garrick felt the most enormous compassion for her. Merryn Fenner was brave and she was honest and she wanted justice and he admired that. But he also knew that if the truth came out she would be horribly disillusioned, all her memories tarnished and her life in ruins once again. Besides, there were others who deserved justice, too, others he had sworn to protect on that terrible day that Stephen had died. He could not permit Merryn to expose them to all the horror that the truth would bring.