“Yes, he approached me in the park, and yes, he offends me, but not how you think. I…I’m not sure how to put it…it’s…it’s difficult to explain.”
“Try,” Harry said, pushing his spectacles up so he could better see every fleeting expression on her face.
She explained. In great detail. So great a detail, in fact, that Harry wondered once or twice if he was going to be able to stop her long enough to get her home. It seemed that once she started, she was determined that he know everything, right down to the scenarios she had planned, scenarios that were not only frightening in their inventiveness, but so ludicrously ridiculous, Harry had an uneasy feeling that they would succeed brilliantly. Forty minutes later Harry lifted his wife into the carriage. “Take us home, Crouch.”
“Aye, my lord. Everythin’ turn out all right, then?”
“Yes,” Harry said as he climbed in after his wife. “Thank Nick for me. And Noble. And my thanks to you for seeing to my lady’s safety.”
“Enjoyed it,” Noble’s pirate butler said with a grin. “Life has been a bit on the dull side of late what with Lady Wessex tied up with the young ‘uns ‘aving the chicken pox.”
It was a relatively short ride home distance-wise, but Harry used every minute to mull over the tale his wife had told him. That she could be the author of the most notoriously sexual book ever published was no surprise to him — he had ample proof of her skill and knowledge of the connubial calisthenics, a skill and knowledge that left him wrung out like a limp rag each night — but that she should believe the only way out of the true identity of Vyvyan La Blue being made public was by blackmailing her former lover was a bit of a shock. His Plum, his gentle, loving Plum who made his life whole, his heart sing, and his body harden with just the thought of her, that Plum was the same woman who cold-bloodedly planned another man’s social ruin just to keep his reputation clean.
Harry thought he couldn’t love Plum any more than he already did, but he was wrong. He loved her more, bless her vengeful little heart.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to blister her ears with a lecture about not sharing her burdens, but still, he couldn’t keep from tasting her, just once before they arrived home.
“You’re not still angry with me, are you?” she asked once he released her lips. The scent of her was dizzying, seeping into his skin, going deep into his body and soul, making him burn to claim her. “You couldn’t kiss me like that if you were angry.”
“Of course I am, you wonderful, adorably silly woman. I’m going to be angry for a very long time. You’re going to have to use every morsel of talent you possess to woo me back into a good mood, and I assure you I am going to take a lot of wooing.”
“Are you?” Plum asked, a wicked light dawning in her eyes. Harry felt himself responding to that light. He loved it when she got wicked. “Well, then, I shall have to put my mind to some inventive ways to woo you.”
“You do that.” He leaned forward to possess himself of her lips again. “It might just save you.”
“Might save me from what?” Plum asked five minutes later, breathless, her eyes misty with passion and love.
“My retribution,” he breathed, and hauled her onto his lap in order to kiss her properly.
CHAPTER Sixteen
The Honorable Charles de Spenser was not having a very good day. First there was a nasty note from his bank that informed him that his credit was of the quality that sadly did not allow the bank to extend its services to him further, followed quickly by a visit to his family solicitor, who pointed out that under the terms of his late father’s will, his quarterly allowance was to be paid only if he remained outside of England. When he returned to the rented rooms he had engaged for himself and his wife, it was to find her surrounded by boxes bearing the names of some of the finest modistes and shops. He didn’t mind in the least that she had bought items for which he had neither the means nor the intention of paying; what rankled was the fact that the bank would spread the news of his insolvency, thus he wouldn’t be able to visit any of the gentlemen’s outfitters and purchase himself a new wardrobe. It just wasn’t fair.
And now Plum of all creatures, soft, stupid Plum had the nerve to ignore his demands. Well, he would see about that. He had a plan to bring her to heel, and if that plan called for him to use her body as well as her husband’s money, that was her own fault. She had had it easy for too long while he suffered as an outcast; now he would have his revenge.
But first he had to get into her house to leave her proof of his intentions. Charles stood in a small garden, pursing his lips as he best considered how to get into the house unseen. The place was locked up tighter than a virgin’s thighs, but at long last, he selected a small window in the back of the house to break with a convenient brick.
“Damned nuisance,” he muttered to himself as he climbed into the window, cutting his hand on a shard of broken glass. “She’ll owe me for this, too.”
He sucked at the wound for a moment, then felt in his breast pocket for the letter he would leave on her pillow, a letter containing specific instructions on how the money was to be paid to him, as well as a reminder that a copy of his statement regarding the true identity of Vyvyan La Blue would be sent to The Times should she not pay him what he was due. He sucked at the cut once more, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief as he crept through the dark room toward the door.
The house was quiet, no footmen on attendance in the hall. Charles climbed the first set of stairs quickly, nervously glancing around to make sure no servants were about. He looked into one or two rooms, but they were day rooms and not the bedchambers he sought. He paused at the foot of the stairs, holding his breath as he listened. There was the faintest sound of voices, but they were young and high voices. No doubt it was Rosse’s children.
A nasty smile spread across his face. He had a taste for young girls, and had heard that Rosse had a daughter who was about the age he enjoyed. Perhaps he could force Plum into turning her over to him, as well.
His mind was so full of lewd thoughts, he failed to noticed the trip wire set at the top of the stairs, nor the bucket carefully suspended from the ceiling. He did notice, however, when a bucket full of stinking, slimy, muddy water poured down onto his head, as if the skies had opened and rained down on him.
He swore profanely, wiping the muck from his eyes, unaware that the noise of children playing before bedtime had ceased for a pregnant moment before being replaced by various whoops of delight, followed by the thunder of several bare feet upon a wooden floor.
All Charles de Spenser knew was that suddenly two children in nightgowns appeared as if by magic, both of them staring at him as he pulled out a sodden handkerchief to wipe his face.
“Who’re you?” a tall boy asked.
Charles was tempted to snarl an answer, but quickly changed his snarl into a hoarse chuckle. He knew well enough that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. “Well there, aren’t you a fine-looking young lad. You must be Rosse’s eldest.”
“I’m Lord Marston,” the boy said with a smug look that Charles wanted to smack off his face. “Who are you?”
“Why, I’m a friend of your mother’s.” Charles smiled as he wiped the slime off his face, vowing revenge on the little bastards as soon as he had Plum in his grip.
“What are you doing here?” the tall girl next to Rosse’s whelp asked.
That must be Rosse’s daughter. Charles leered at her and thought about taking the girl aside, but time was of the essence. He had to leave his letter in Plum’s bed and escape before any adults noticed his presence. The children were of no consequence — he never believed a thing his own children told him; no doubt Rosse and Plum were the same way. Regretfully he swallowed his desire for the girl.