How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (30 page)

Or to remember reading about such a masquerade party in his own wife’s book.

Giles gritted his teeth. “Expose me, and you expose yourself as well. Until now, with no one knowing of your perfidy, you’ve been free to live off your family’s money and keep company with your countrymen in Paris without fear of scandal. That
would end.”

“Ah, but I don’t care about my place in society anymore.” Newmarsh’s gaze hardened. “I want to go home to die. And if you don’t convince Ravenswood and his superiors to allow it, I will reveal the true state of affairs behind Sully’s trial. I daresay it won’t help your reputation to be branded a thief publicly. Some of your lofty friends might not be so friendly anymore.”

The old anger rose up in Giles’s throat to choke him. “You have the audacity to blackmail me after what you did to my father—”

“Your father did it to himself. He should have been more careful. But he never could resist a risky investment, could he?”

Giles seethed. That was true. Though Newmarsh had brought his father into the risky scheme that Sully had concocted, Father had made the choice to invest.

“I don’t know if I can convince Ravenswood to allow it,” Giles said truthfully. “And even if he agrees, his superiors might not. The British government has a strict policy of never giving in to blackmail.”

Newmarsh’s lips thinned into a cruel line. “Then you’d better hope they bend that policy for you. Because if they don’t, every newspaper in London will have the real story of what happened with Sir John Sully. And I don’t think you want that.”

Giles stared coldly at the man.

Newmarsh continued, “You will arrange it because you have a future that you want to secure. I, on the other hand, have no future. And what I ask is a small inconvenience compared to what you did to me.”

“What
I
did? You mean, keeping you from ruining anyone else in your eagerness to gain a cut of Sir John’s fraudulent profits?” His voice rose with anger. “Making sure that the son of a bitch was hanged for bilking hundreds of people out of
their money? He would never have been brought to justice without those documents, and you certainly weren’t going to turn on him.”

Newmarsh showed no trace of remorse. “True. And my only regret is that I didn’t hide them well enough from the likes of you.” He leaned back. “Tell me, how do you think the bar will respond to accusations that one of their attorneys helped the government make a case by illegally obtaining evidence?”

Sickened by the very thought, Giles rose. “I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”

When he turned to leave, Newmarsh said, “I understand you have a new wife.”

An icy chill swept down Giles’s neck. Slowly he faced Newmarsh. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“I daresay she’ll feel otherwise if her husband’s past actions are dragged through the papers.”

Newmarsh was right. How would Minerva handle watching her husband’s reputation held up to scrutiny, his trials questioned, his every move examined and reexamined by the press? She’d lived through one such scandal in her life. He could never ask her to endure another.

In a voice less shaky than he felt, he said, “You’ve made your point, Newmarsh. I’ll take care of it.”

But as he left, he realized how precarious his position was. He’d stolen those papers before he’d started informing for the Home Office. Burning with the need for vengeance—and a way to make up for his own wasted life—he’d acted precipitously. The ends had justified the means for him.

Unfortunately, others might not view it that way. He hadn’t lied about the government’s policy concerning blackmail—they were
not
going to want to give in to Newmarsh’s demands. So Giles would have to offer them something they wanted in
order to gain their compliance.

And they wanted only one thing from him—his continued work as an operative.

He swore foully as he strode back to the hotel. He didn’t want to return to that, damn it. He wanted his life back. He wanted a future.

If Minerva found out that the risks he’d taken nine years ago had come back to ruin both their lives, she would lose all the faith she’d put in him. So would his family. So would everyone. He would return to being the failure, the waste of a second son. He refused to do that. He’d worked too hard to leave that behind him.

He might get lucky and the government just might decide to bend their policy for him.

And if not?

Ravenswood had said they wanted him badly enough to offer him political favors. And he knew exactly what favor he wanted, even if it
did
mean giving in to Newmarsh’s blackmail. And returning to working with Ravenswood.

Damn it all to hell!

Now fully in a temper, he entered the Hotel Bourbon, ignoring the owner, who tried to gain his attention as came in. After hurrying up the stairs, he slowed his steps to the whisper-soft ones he used when sneaking around trying to get information. It was a little harder to unlock the door silently, but he managed it.

So it came as a shock when he opened it to find Minerva sitting up in bed, reading. For half a breath, he hoped that she’d just been waiting for his return. But when she put the book down and cast him an anxious stare, he knew that was a futile hope.

“Where the devil did you go?” she asked, her eyes showing
pure betrayal.

He was in big trouble.

Minerva watched, her stomach sinking, as Giles removed his coat and turned away to hang it on the back of a chair. “Well? I went down to the common room looking for you, but you weren’t there.”

He paused in the act of unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Still don’t trust me, I see.”

“It had nothing to do with trust. I couldn’t sleep either, so I thought we could have a glass of wine together.” The half-truth caught in her throat. Forcing herself to go on, she tried not to sound like some accusing wife. “But you weren’t in the hotel.”

He removed his waistcoat and placed it with precise motions over the chair. “When the wine didn’t help, I went for a walk.”

His explanation was plausible, except for one thing. “The hotel owner said he hadn’t seen you in the common room at all. He seemed to believe you were still upstairs.” When Giles remained silent, she said in a low voice, “You promised not to lie to me.”

“And I won’t,” he snapped. “Just don’t ask me questions about things that don’t concern you.”

The knife went in so quickly that it took a moment for her to react. Then the hurt set in, bone deep. “I see,” she choked out. Rolling over to put the book on the bedside table, she pulled the covers up to her chin.

Giles cursed under his breath and came toward the bed. “Damn it, Minerva, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that how it
sounded.”

“Then how
did
you mean it?” She fought to keep the quiver from her voice, but when he hesitated, that was impossible. She turned to stare at him, the knife twisting in her chest. “Were you . . . were you with a woman?”

“A woman!” he exclaimed with clear outrage on his face. “God, no. I would never do that to you.”

The vehemence in his voice made her want to believe him.

Yet when he came to stand beside the bed, his eyes looked lost. “I had to take care of a matter of business,” he went on, “and I didn’t want you thinking that this trip . . . that we came here—”

“For some reason other than a honeymoon?” she asked.

“Yes! Exactly.” He hastily stripped off the rest of his clothes and got into bed beside her. “That’s all it was. I swear.”

Somehow she knew there was more to it than that. His nervousness earlier in the day, the look of pure shock on his face when he’d come through the door to find her still up—everything said that this was more than a matter of business.

For one thing, there was no reason he couldn’t have told her that in the first place. For another, who did business in the dead of night? And why wouldn’t he look at her?

“So what was this matter of business?” she asked, watching his face.

His expression went cold. Still not looking at her, he leaned over to blow out the candle. “As I said, nothing to do with you.”

The knife slid deeper. “Do you know what?” she said, fighting for some semblance of equilibrium, “I think you’re right—not asking you questions at all probably
is
the safest course of action. At least then I don’t have to hear you lie to me.”

“Darling, please,” he began, sliding his arms about her waist.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not now.”

Wisely, he retreated.

She turned her back to him once more, struggling not to cry. They lay there in the dark, both silent. She could feel his breathing on her neck, feel his eyes boring into her, but she refused to acknowledge him.

What had she been thinking, to believe that Giles might change for her? He was going to be exactly like all those men who told their wives only what they wanted to hear. Who lived separate lives. He would keep his secrets and add new ones, while she was expected to go on in her own sphere, entirely apart from him.

At least he was allowing her to write her books. It was probably more than she could have hoped for from any husband.

Except that she
had
hoped for more from him. She’d let herself be lulled into believing they could have a real marriage, that in time he would grow to trust her enough to tell her what was important to him. The loss of that hope was almost too much to bear.

She lay there, her stomach churning and her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She hoped he really hadn’t been with a woman—that would destroy her. It did seem a bit too blatant for their wedding trip, even for him. Plus, he didn’t smell of French perfume. That tiny realization reassured her somewhat. He smelled of wine, but that wasn’t odd—if he’d really been doing business, a drink wasn’t unusual.

But then, why couldn’t he tell her about this “business”? It made no sense.

After a while she heard his breathing become even, and anger surged in her again. How could he sleep when there was this
rift between them? Her heart was shattered, and he didn’t care. But then when had Giles ever cared about breaking her heart?

She couldn’t sleep—it was impossible. There was only one thing for it. Slipping from the bed, she lit a candle, then settled into the chair by the window.

She glanced over at him. He slept as innocent as a babe, his chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm that made her heart ache.

Such a handsome husband she’d got for herself. What was wrong with women that they let such things blind them? First, Mama, then her . . .

I’m not your father
, Giles had claimed. But what if he was exactly her father? What would she do?

There was naught she
could
do. That was the trouble with marriage—once you were in it, you were trapped forever.

But how was she to go on with him when she felt this rip in the fabric of her soul?

She would simply have to find a way to go on. She couldn’t let him keep doing this to her. The trouble was that she had already let him get too far under her skin. She’d given up her freedom, while he’d given up nothing. So she must retreat, must find a way to protect herself.

There was only one thing that worked for that, only one thing that had sustained her through her parents’ deaths, through the weeks after Giles had first broken her heart, through the long, hard years of enduring public censure and gossip.

She took up her notebook and licked the tip of her pencil. Words bounced around in her head, fragments falling into place—bits from the trial, images from her morning rambles with Giles, the feel of her heart breaking inside her . . .

Slowly she began to write.

D
URING HIS FIRST
two nights with Minerva Giles had slept like a man drugged. Drugged by the pleasure of her in his bed, the warmth of her in his arms, the contentment that came of knowing someone well enough to sleep comfortably beside them.

But not last night. He’d awakened near two
a.m.
to find a candle lit. Remembering what she’d said about sometimes getting up to write, he’d forced himself to stay quiet, listening to the scratch of her pencil.

Once, he’d stolen a glance at her. She was crying, yet it was as if she didn’t
know
she was crying. She just kept scratching away, like an engraver with a hammer and graver, etching life into the inanimate.

Giles had burned to know what she was writing. Turning Rockton into an even worse villain, most likely.

It was probably what he deserved, yet he kept his silence. He was
not
going to drag her into this mess with Newmarsh, especially when the only way out of it might be to go back to living his double life. He couldn’t tell her about that—she wouldn’t approve when she realized what it would entail. Besides, he had a faint hope that Ravenswood and his superiors would agree to the blackmail without his having to give up his future for it.

For now, he could deal with her anger. She would get over it. She had to. They were married.

The next two times he awoke, she was still writing feverishly, but when he finally awoke again near dawn, he found her beside him in the bed, sleeping. For a moment, he just lay there, watching her. She was so beautiful. And too bloody smart and suspicious for her own good. He should have known he could never manage his meeting with Newmarsh without
her catching on.

But devil take it, he was a man! He had a right to live his life without his wife nosing into his business. Father had never told Mother a damned thing about his financial affairs.

Yes, and that had certainly worked out well. Mother had been widowed at the age of fifty, forced into near poverty, and saved only by the sacrifice of her oldest son, who’d had to marry a deceitful bitch for money. But only after Giles had separated him from the love of his life, another heiress, who might have saved the family and herself if she’d married David, as everyone had expected.

Giles winced. He had a history of bungling things. Oh, sure, he’d done well by Ravenswood in his later years, and he was competent in the courtroom, but his early life kept coming back to haunt him. How could he endure the look on her face if she learned he’d done it again?