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A Rake’s Midnight Kiss
Anna Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Packham House, London, March 1827

The whole world knows you for a slut, madam.”

The impassioned declaration dropped into one of those lulls that occasionally affected a crowded room. Like everyone else crammed into Lord Packham’s ballroom this uncommonly warm spring night, Sir Richard Harmsworth craned his neck to see who had spoken. And, more interesting, to whom.

His height offered an advantage and he quickly identified the players in the conflict. Then wished to God he hadn’t. Damn it to hell, the family dirty linen endured another public washing.

Near the main doors, a pale-haired stripling faced down a beautiful older woman with dark hair. A faintly pitying smile curled the woman’s lips and she betrayed no trace of chagrin. While Richard couldn’t place the furious boy, he had no difficulty identifying the lady labeled a trollop.

Augusta, Lady Harmsworth, was his mother. Much good it had ever done him.

From long habit, Richard plastered an affable expression on his face, as if none of this could possibly matter. Still, his gut clenched with old, futile anger as he started toward the brouhaha. What a dashed pity that he was thirty-two years too late to prevent scandal.

The extravagant crowd parted before him as if he was Moses contemplating a seaside stroll. He felt hundreds of eyes burning into his back. As an acknowledged arbiter of fashion, he was accustomed to attention. Tonight, that attention contained no admiration. Instead the avid interest indicated that society scented blood. Richard and his mother knew better than to give it to them. He wasn’t so sure about the distraught young man.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his best friend Camden Rothermere, Duke of Sedgemoor, striding in the same direction. Then his gaze focused on his mother. It must be five years since he’d seen her and she’d hardly aged a day. Clearly sin was good for the complexion, he thought sourly.

“No need for that, Colby.” Lord Benchley, one of his mother’s regular escorts, raised his quizzing glass and subjected the trembling youth to a derisive inspection. “Take your dismissal in good part and don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Richard identified his mother’s accuser. Lord Colby was just out of Cambridge and new in Town. Augusta always gathered a coterie of handsome young men although, to give her what little credit she deserved, she rarely accepted these greenlings into her bed. She saved that privilege for more experienced paramours like, reportedly, Benchley.

Richard might resent his mother, but some painful compulsion meant that he kept track of her admirers. To the world, he pretended not to care a fig for her or her behavior. Beneath his languid, fashionable shell, he reluctantly admitted that was far from the truth.

“And here comes her bastard,” the boy said bitterly as Richard approached. “Or at least the one we know about.”

Everyone in the glittering gathering seemed to release a combined gasp of horrified delight. The musicians scratched into silence. A lanky fellow behind Colby grabbed the youth’s arm. “Shut up, Colby. Harmsworth’s a crack shot. Do you want a bullet for your trouble?”

Colby shook him off. Now that Richard was near, he saw that the young lordling verged on tears. Blast her to Hades, yet again his mother wreaked havoc, as she’d wreaked havoc throughout her son’s life.

“Good evening, Mother. I see you still know how to make an entrance,” he said drily, pointedly ignoring the obstreperous cub. One would imagine that after being tarred a bastard so long, the word would lose its sting. Unfortunately the rancor knotting his stomach indicated that it hadn’t.

Knowing how closely they were observed, Richard bent over her hand in a show of respect. Long experience had proven that the slightest betrayal of genuine emotion would have society tearing at him like wolves.

His mother was even better at hiding her reaction, if any, to insults. Or to meeting her estranged son after such a protracted interval. She stared back at Richard steadily and her lips curved in the smile that had caused untold trouble among the masculine half of the population. Going right back to Richard’s father, whoever the hell he’d been.

Spiteful gossip had long speculated that a stablehand had tupped Lady Harmsworth while Sir Lester was away on a diplomatic mission to Russia. When Sir Lester returned to an heir after a sixteen-month absence, there was no hiding his wife’s adultery. The scandal didn’t upset the succession. Sir Lester had never openly questioned Augusta’s faithfulness and Richard was duly accepted as the next baronet, however dubious his bloodlines.

“One would so hate to be dull,” his mother said coolly.

Richard tilted an inquiring eyebrow at her as his rage coiled like a cobra. Since his schooldays, he’d suffered mockery, scorn, and violence because of his mother’s wantonness. Pride might have taught him to hide resentment but had done nothing to soften it. “Indeed.”

“Lady Harmsworth, a pleasure to see you.” Cam finally made it through the crowd.

“Your Grace.” Her exquisite curtsy conveyed a hint of defiance. Richard would dearly love to hate everything about his mother, but he couldn’t quite make himself despise her courage. He knew what it cost to hold one’s head up against the world’s contempt. “Here to pour oil on troubled waters?”

Cam smiled at her. “Merely to offer myself as a partner for this dance.”

Augusta turned to Richard. “And, my son, what are you doing here? Don’t tell me you mean to fight a duel over my honor.”

A faint titter from behind him greeted that outrageous statement. Richard read the devil in her eyes as she dared him to challenge her claim to honor. Part of the agony of all this was that he and his mother weren’t so different, even down to the way they deployed imperturbable elegance to discourage insolence.

Usually it worked.

His neutral expression didn’t falter. “I don’t shoot inebriated children, however naughty they are.”

Colby’s friend latched more firmly onto his arm. “Come away, Colby. And be grateful that you escaped with your life.”

“Yes, I’ll go.” Stubbornly Colby stood his ground and glowered at Richard. His voice was raw with emotion. “I’ll forsake the lady’s raddled charms and I’ll overlook the presumption of a blackguard who can’t name the man who sired him. Not even the Harmsworth Jewel could make either of you fit for decent society. Your names are filth.”

This time the snickers were more pronounced and the crowd surged forward like a turbulent sea, threatening to suffocate Richard. God rot Colby; why must he parade his broken heart in the middle of this crush? The urge to flatten the unmannerly whelp with one blow jammed in Richard’s throat, even as he forced out a light reply. “The Harmsworth Jewel? Good Lord, nobody’s seen that bauble since the Wars of the Roses.”

He was astonished that Colby knew of the jewel’s existence or the legend that its possession confirmed the Harmsworth heir. Richard exaggerated to say that the artifact had been missing since the fifteenth century, but it had certainly been lost to the main branch of the family for more than fifty years.

“Raddled charms?” At his side, Augusta’s silvery laugh rang out. “My dear Colby, you wound me.”

“You’re in remarkable looks, Lady Harmsworth. Ignore this puppy.” Cam, no stranger to family scandal himself, stepped forward, his air of authority cowing even the fuming Colby. “Shall we dance?”

Cam signaled to the orchestra as if he were the host rather than Lord Packham. A waltz began as he and Augusta proceeded to the floor with a regal assurance that dared anyone to utter an impertinent word. Not for the first time, Richard was grateful for his friend’s aplomb in a sticky situation.

With palpable disappointment, the eager audience began to disperse. Yet again, the Harmsworths had skirted outright disgrace, although Colby’s tantrum would provide a delicious on-dit to spice reminiscences of the ball.

“Take his lordship home,” Richard said to Colby’s companion. For once he couldn’t conceal his weariness. He was so bloody tired of all this. Tired of disdain. Tired of pretending that every insult slid off his immaculately dressed hide without leaving a mark. Tired of his mother’s sins crashing down upon his head. Tired above all of being the Harmsworth bastard.

The rage twisting in his belly cooled, set into a determination as hard as an iron bar. He’d find the deuced Harmsworth Jewel and he’d turn the gewgaw into a pin for his neck cloth. He’d brandish it beneath the ton’s noses like a banner of war until they admitted that while he mightn’t be the right Harmsworth, he was the only Harmsworth they were going to get.

Then let any man call him bastard.

Chapter One

Little Derrick, Oxfordshire, September 1827

Damnation!”

A thud followed by a low masculine curse stirred Genevieve from sleep. Even then she needed a few seconds to realize that she was slumped over the desk in her study upstairs at the vicarage. Her candles had gone out and the room’s only illumination was the dying fire. In that faint glow, she watched a dark shape below the windowsill lengthen upward until a man’s form blocked faint starlight from outside.

Choking fear held her motionless. Fear and outrage. How dare anyone break into her home? It felt like a personal affront. Her father and aunt were out, dining with the Duke of Sedgemoor at his local estate. The duke never visited this isolated corner of his vast holdings, so everyone was agog to see him. Genevieve had been invited too, but she’d wanted to stay and work on some research. The servants were away for the evening.

The man at the window remained still, as if checking that the room was empty before launching his nefarious activities. The charged silence extended. Then the tension eased from his lean body and he stepped toward the fire. From her dark corner, Genevieve watched him set a candle to the coals.

Blast his impudence, he’d soon learn he wasn’t alone.

Quickly her hand found the desk’s second drawer and tugged it open, not bothering to conceal the noise as she grabbed what lay hidden inside. The candle flared into life, the intruder turned his head sharply in her direction, and Genevieve lurched to her feet.

As she stepped around the desk on shaky legs, she forced a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “You’ll find nothing worth stealing in this house. I suggest you leave. Immediately.”

Instead of reacting with the horrified dismay she sought, the man took his time straightening. Still with that leisurely air, he raised his candle to illuminate Genevieve where she stood. His face was covered with a black silk mask such as people wore to masquerade balls. Not that she had any experience of such events. “You’re dashed well protected if there truly is nothing worth stealing.”

Her hand steady, she raised the gun she’d taken from the drawer. “We live on the edge of the village, as you no doubt noted when you chose this house as your target.” A horrible thought struck her and she waved the pistol at him. “Are you armed?”

He stiffened with shock, as though the question offended. To demonstrate his nonviolent intentions, he spread his hands wide. “Of course not, dear lady.”

This rapscallion was a most bizarre burglar. Her knowledge of the criminal fraternity was limited, but this man’s assurance struck her as remarkable. He spoke like a gentleman and didn’t seem particularly concerned that she had a weapon. Her lips tightened and she firmed her grip on the pistol. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. In your line of work, you must expect opposition from your victims.”

“I make sure the house is unoccupied before I start work.”

“Like tonight,” she said coldly.

He shrugged. “Even master criminals make the occasional mistake, Miss Barrett.”

Her belly knotted with dread. This time not even her strongest efforts steadied her voice. “How do you know my name?”

The lips below the mask twitched and he stepped closer.

“Stay back!” she snapped. Her heart banged so hard against her ribs, surely he must hear it.

Ignoring her pistol with insulting ease, he lifted the candle and subjected her to a lengthy and unnerving inspection. Genevieve’s sense of unreality built. Everything around her was familiar. The shabby comfort of her favorite room. The jumbled items on the desk. The pile of pages covered in her writing. All was as it should be, except for the tall masked man with his indefinable air of elegance and his smile of indulgent amusement. She had an irritating intuition that the reprobate played with her.

Bracing under that assessing regard, she made herself study him like she’d study an artifact, although with his face covered she would never be able to describe him to the authorities. Candlelight glinted on rich gold hair and found fascinating shadows under the open neck of his white shirt. He wore breeches and boots. Despite this basic clothing, his manner screamed privilege. And while she couldn’t see his face, something about the way he carried himself indicated he was a handsome man.

A most bizarre burglar indeed.

“A good thief does his research.” He answered the question that she’d forgotten she’d asked. “Although research occasionally lets one down. For example, village gossip indicated that you attended a soiree at Leighton Court tonight.”

“I wanted to—” She realized she responded as if to any polite enquiry. The hand holding the gun showed a lamentable tendency to droop, pointing the barrel harmlessly at the floor. She bit her lip and hoisted the gun in what she prayed was a convincing gesture. “Get out of this house.”

“But I haven’t got what I came for.”

He shifted closer, making her feel more at risk than at any time since he’d arrived. At risk as a woman was at risk from a man. Her skin tightened with awareness of their isolation. She hadn’t missed how his gaze had lingered on her body. Before recalling that any show of vulnerability delivered him the advantage, she backed away. She pointed the gun at his chest. “Get out now or I’ll shoot.”

His frown indicated that her demand galled his sense of decorum. “Dear lady—”

She stiffened. Somewhere she’d lost control of this encounter. Which was absurd. She was the one with the gun. “I’m not your dear lady.”

As if acknowledging that she’d scored a point, he bowed. “As you wish, Miss Barrett. I’ve done you no wrong. It seems excessive to menace me with murder.”

Astonishment almost made her laugh. “You broke into my house. You threatened me with—”

He interrupted. “So far, any threats have emanated from your charming self.”

“You mean to steal,” she said in a low, vibrating voice.

“But I haven’t. Yet.” The expressive mouth above the intriguingly hard jawline curved into a charming smile. “Temper justice with mercy. Let me go free to seek redemption.”

“Let you go free to find some other innocent to rob,” she said sharply. “Better to lock you in the cellar and summon the local magistrate.”

“That would be unkind. I don’t like small, confined places.”

“In that case, you’ve chosen the wrong profession. Somewhere someone will catch you.”

Disregarding the gun, he took another step forward. “Surely your compassionate heart abhors the thought of my imprisonment.”

She retreated and realized that he’d boxed her against the desk. She tightened her grip on the gun to counteract her slippery palms. “Move away or I swear I’ll shoot.”

He lit one of the candles on the desk and blew out his own smaller candle, dropping it smoking to the blotter. “Tsk, Miss Barrett. You’ll get blood on the carpet.”

“I’ll—”

Words escaped on a gasp as with surprising speed he grabbed the hand holding the gun. A few nimble turns of that long body and he caught her against him, facing the open window. Pressed to him, she was overwhelmingly conscious of his power. His leanness was deceptive. There was no denying the muscles in the arms holding her or the breadth of the chest behind her. He embraced her firmly across her torso, trapping her arms. While she still held her weapon, she couldn’t shift to aim it.

The barbed but oddly flirtatious conversation had calmed immediate dread. Now fear surged anew. What in heaven’s name was she thinking, bandying words with this scoundrel? As if she enjoyed herself, when if she despised anything in this world, it was a thief.

She caught her breath on a frightened hiccup and struggled. “Let me go!”

His arms tightened like straps, controlling her with mortifying ease. Genevieve was a tall, strong girl, no frail lily, but the thief was taller and stronger. She’d never before measured her strength against a man’s. It rankled how easily he restrained her. She’d never been so aware of another person’s physical reality. The experience was disturbing beyond her natural terror of an intruder. “Hush, Miss Barrett. I give you my word I mean no harm.”

“Then release me.” She panted, her wriggles achieving nothing beyond the collapse of her never very secure coiffure.

“Not unless you put the gun down.”

She maneuvered to elbow him in the belly, but his grip made it impossible. “Then I’ll be at your mercy,” she said breathlessly.

A grunt of laughter escaped him. “There’s that to consider.”

He was so close that his amusement vibrated through her. The sensation was uncomfortably intimate. A few more of those blasted deft movements and he snatched her weapon. He placed it beyond reach on the desk.

“I’ll scream.”

“There’s nobody to hear,” he said carelessly, and in that moment, she truly hated him.

“You’re despicable,” she hissed, trying and failing to free herself. Her heart galloped with fright and anger. With him, and with herself for being a stupid, weak female, prey to an overbearing male.

“Sticks and stones.”

He drew her into his body and took a sliding step backward. She became conscious not just of his size and strength—those had been apparent from the moment he caught her up—but also of his enveloping heat and the way that he smelled pleasantly of something herbal. Fresh. Tangy.

This ruffian took the trouble to wash regularly.

He reversed another step and opened the door with a rattle, containing her struggles beneath one arm with humiliating ease. Fear spurred rage. She wrenched hard against him and tried without success to sink her fingernails into his forearm.

“No, you don’t,” he huffed, tugging her closer.

“I’ll have your liver for this,” she snarled, even as his scent continued to prick her senses. What was that smell?

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

She wished she didn’t notice how laughter warmed that deep, musical voice. Any angry response died in furious shock as he brushed his cheek softly against the wing of hair covering her cheek.

“Au revoir, Miss Barrett,” he whispered in her ear, his breath teasing nerves she didn’t know she possessed. Then he shoved her away from him hard.

By the time she’d regained her footing, he’d slammed the door and locked it from outside with the key he must have palmed when he fiddled with the latch.

“Don’t you dare ransack the house, you devil!” she shouted, rushing forward and pounding on the door. But the vicarage doors were of solid English oak and hardly shook under her determined assault. “Don’t you dare!”

Gasping, she stopped and pressed her ear to the door, desperate to work out what he was up to. She heard a distant slam as though someone left by the front door. Could her presence have deterred him from his larcenous plans? She couldn’t imagine why. From the first, he’d had the best of the conflict.

Her hands fisted against the wood as she recalled his barefaced cheek in holding her so … so improperly.

“Improper” seemed too weak a term to describe the sensations he’d aroused when he’d captured her like a sheep ready for the shears. Like that sheep, she was about to be well and truly fleeced. She was in no position to stop the villain from taking what he wanted. Nobody would let her out until her father and aunt returned from the duke’s, and heaven knew when that would be. The Reverend Ezekiel Barrett adored hobnobbing with the quality. He’d be there until breakfast if Sedgemoor didn’t throw him out first. She’d have to go out the window the way the villain had come in.

Tears of frustration stung her eyes. However illogically, she felt the radiating heat of the burglar’s body against hers. It was like he still touched her. She wasn’t afraid anymore, at least not for her person. If the rascal had wanted to hurt her, he’d had plenty of opportunity. Her principal reaction, now that fear and unwilling fascination ebbed, was self-disgust. She’d acted a ninnyhammer, the sort of jittery female she despised. She’d had a gun. Why hadn’t she forced him from the house?

The ominous silence extended. What was the blackguard doing? Would there be anything left by the time he finished? She glanced over to the desk and thanked the Lord that the only genuinely valuable item here had escaped his notice. For a sneak thief, he wasn’t very observant, although he hadn’t struck her as a man deficient in intelligence. Or, she added with renewed outrage, impertinence. Nevertheless, any professional would immediately purloin the gold object on the blotter.

Something landed on the carpet near the open window. Curious, nervous, Genevieve grabbed the candle from the desk and lifted it high. On the floor lay the key.

Astonished and outraged, she rushed to the window, but darkness and the elm’s thick foliage obstructed her view. In the distance someone started to whistle. A jaunty old tune. “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Apt for an absconding thief, she supposed. Not that he’d betrayed any panic. Again, his confidence struck her as puzzling. The music faded as the whistler wandered into the night.

With shaking hands, Genevieve scooped up the key and balanced it on her palm. One completely unimportant fact threw every other consideration to the wind. She’d finally identified the smell that had tantalized her when he’d held her.

Lemon verbena.

Chapter Two

Richard drained his brandy and rested his head against the back of the leather armchair in Leighton Court’s library. Housebreaking left a man in dire need of a drink. The black mask draped disregarded from a bookshelf. He’d felt like a confounded mountebank wearing it, but as things turned out, it had been a wise decision. After six months of detective work, he’d found his treasure.

“She’s got the jewel, all right, after playing coy with my agents about whether Great Aunt Amelia left it to her. When I climbed through the only open window I could find, it sat on the desk, plain as that big beak on your face.”

“No need to get personal.” Camden Rothermere, Duke of Sedgemoor, rose from the matching chair across the hearth to refill Richard’s glass. The duke’s green eyes below his ruler-straight black hair lightened with the humor that only his friends saw.

Right now, Richard knew he took advantage of that friendship. Only a good friend would rusticate on this obscure estate to support a pal when he could be enjoying the delights of his principal seat in Derbyshire. Cam’s house in Little Derrick gave Richard a base in the neighborhood. Cam’s name would provide an introduction to the locals.

Cam hissed with impatience. “Why the devil didn’t you steal it then and there if the damned thing was ripe for the taking? Nice quick job. You can slink back to the fleshpots and I can go north to supervise the harvest at Fentonwyck.”

“Bad form to steal it, old man, bad form.” A faint smile tilted Richard’s lips as his free hand dangled to toy with his dog’s ears. Sirius, a hound of indeterminate breed, snoozed on the floor beside the chair, his long nose resting on his front paws. He hadn’t appreciated missing out on tonight’s excitement. “I’ll give the chit a chance to sell it to me first. If I steal it, I can’t brandish the bauble to demonstrate that I’m the title’s incumbent and society had better bloody well respect that.”

Richard spoke more casually than circumstances warranted. Until tonight, he’d only seen the jewel in watercolor sketches in the family papers. The urge to pocket the gold and enamel trinket had been deuced strong, but tonight’s burglary had always only been a reconnaissance mission.

His agents had approached Miss Barrett several times to purchase the jewel and none of them could get the damned woman to admit that she had the troublesome artifact. She’d neither denied nor confirmed, although every trail ended at Little Derrick’s vicarage. Tonight’s burglary had been a last-ditch attempt to discover whether to proceed with the plan that even he admitted sounded outlandish.

The rage that had gripped him in Lord Packham’s ballroom still soured his days. Laying his hands on the jewel had become a quest to assert his worthiness to a world too eager to discount him as a sham.

“I’m glad I don’t have to add theft to your list of misdemeanors.” Cam eyed Richard without favor.

“I’ll try persuasion first.” He sipped his friend’s excellent brandy, his pleasure in recalling the vicar’s fiery daughter vying with the anger that had simmered for six months. Longer. His whole life. “Anyway, Miss Barrett had a gun.”

A surprised gust of laughter escaped Cam. “Did she, by Jove? Good for her. I wondered if you’d encounter the mysterious Miss Barrett when her father and aunt turned up to dinner without her, but it was too late to warn you that the vicarage wasn’t empty. I swear the reverend gentleman could talk the leg off an iron pot. Even if you’d caught a bullet, I had the worst of the evening.”

“I owe you.” Richard stretched his long legs across the blue and red Turkey carpet. Pleasant weariness weighted his limbs.

“You do indeed. Although I have to say Leighton Court is dashed appealing. I should have been quicker to check out Uncle Henry’s bequest after he turned up his toes last year.” Cam subsided into his chair. “So was the scholarly spinster what you imagined? Bad skin? Round shoulders? No bosom? A squint from poring over all those dusty tomes?”

A surge of purely male appreciation warmed Richard’s blood. The body he’d held had definitely sported a bosom. Quite an impressive one if he was any judge of women. Which of course he was.

“The lady is … interesting,” he said musingly, fingers stilling on Sirius’s shaggy head. The dog grumbled softly at the cessation of attention.

“If she countered your nonsense with a pistol, she certainly is. I take it you’re proceeding with this ramshackle scheme.”

Richard smiled, recalling the girl facing him down as cool as you please. Instead of a dried-up old maid, he’d encountered a glorious Amazon. Tall. Blond. Flashing silver eyes to make mincemeat of his unflattering expectations.

“Richard?” Cam prompted when the silence extended.

“Hmm?”

“Stop mooning over the damned filly. I gather she was something of a beauty. Answer me.”

“Of course I’m going on.” Richard rose and without invitation refilled his glass. He waved the decanter at Cam, but his famously abstemious friend shook his head. “I can’t see I’ve got much choice. I could go through the courts and prove Aunt Amelia had no legal right to bequeath the jewel to Miss Barrett, but chancery cases take forever and you never know how those blasted judges will rule. Miss Barrett won’t deal with my representatives, even after they said I’d give ten thousand guineas for the jewel.”

“Money clearly doesn’t move her.”

“Something will, and I’ll discover what that is. Luckily for me, her father takes in paying students. It’s a matter of infiltrating the household and keeping an eye for the main chance. Everybody has a price—I’m sure I’ll learn the female prodigy’s.”

Cam still looked unconvinced. “She’ll know what you want the minute she hears your name.”

Richard’s lips curled in a sly smile as he lounged against the mantel. “Meet Christopher Evans, rich dilettante from Shropshire.”

Cam’s voice flattened. “You mean seduction.”

For one blazing instant, the prospect of plundering Genevieve Barrett’s Viking charms dazzled Richard, until reluctantly he shook his head. “No need to sound so disapproving, old chum. I’ll soften her up with a bit of flirtation, but I won’t ruin her. I don’t mean the girl any harm, whatever dance she’s led me over the jewel’s whereabouts. I’ll give her a few weeks of masculine attention and a nice fat purse, then leave her with a smile and the jewel in my pocket.”

“A female who holds you off at gunpoint mightn’t be an easy conquest.”

Richard shrugged. “I know enough to get round an innocent country miss. She’ll be eating out of my hand in no time.”

“If tonight’s any indication, she’s more likely to bite your fingers off. You’re sounding like such a coxcomb, I’d almost like to see that.”

Richard’s laugh held an acid note. “I can act the charmer when I have to. Good God, I learned that lesson long ago. My amiable ignorance in response to insult saved me a parcel of beatings from our dear schoolfellows.”

He shuddered, recollecting the tortures their friend Jonas Merrick, also illegitimate, had undergone at Eton because he was too stiff-necked to play the game. Well, Jonas had had the last laugh last year when he’d been named Viscount Hillbrook. Richard intended to have the last laugh too, even if only to irritate the high sticklers by flashing the legendary Harmsworth jewel under their supercilious noses.

Cam looked unimpressed. “Nothing will change the circumstances of your birth.”

“Perhaps not,” he said with a bitterness that he’d reveal to nobody else. “But surely you of all men understand the need for defiance.”

The murky details of Cam’s conception had been subject to even more spiteful gossip than Richard’s. Cam’s mother, the duchess, had divided her favors between her husband and his younger brother. Nobody, including reportedly the duchess, knew which Rothermere had fathered her son. Scandal of that magnitude at the highest levels never lacked repeating.

All their lives, Richard and Cam had paid for their parents’ sins. At Eton with Jonas, they’d forged a bond based in shared adversity. Until recently, Jonas had gone his own way, but Cam and Richard’s friendship had never faltered, despite Cam being a pattern card of decorum and Richard’s flair for outraging the prudish. In a rare contemplative moment, Richard had concluded that Cam strove to live down his notorious parentage by proving himself worthy of his title.

Still, through his harum-scarum existence, Richard had reason to be grateful for this steadfast friendship. Take the case in point. Loyalty brought Cam, even if vociferously objecting, to this small Oxfordshire estate.

“Any victory will be purely symbolic,” Cam said.

“Symbols can be powerful.” He summoned a smile as he returned to his chair. “Come, Cam. Let me have one last adventure before life becomes odiously flat. This next season, I intend to become a respectable married man. High time I set up my nursery with a virgin whose unimpeachable pedigree will restore some prestige to the sadly tainted Harmsworth name.”

Cam didn’t look any happier. “Marrying a woman you love can be an adventure.”

“Love, my dear fellow?” Richard’s laugh rang with cynicism. “I plan a fashionable marriage. No mawkish attachment. All I require of a wife is an unquestionably legitimate heir.”

“You’re selling yourself short. If any man deserves a happy family life, it’s you.”

Richard shifted uncomfortably. That was the confounded problem with old chums; they saw beyond civilized boundaries to places in a man’s soul that he never wanted to visit. “Dash it, Cam, I never thought to hear you turning sentimental.”

Cam’s expression remained grave. “I can’t help envying what Jonas and Sidonie have. He’s a better man for knowing her. It makes me think love is worth seeking, whatever the risks.”

Richard wasn’t fool enough to dismiss the genuine love Jonas shared with his wife, nor the joy he’d found as father to his daughter. “Jonas is a lucky devil. But Sidonie’s one in a million. I wouldn’t wager sixpence on the chances of finding a woman to equal her.”

But as Richard lounged in Cam’s luxurious library, so different from the dilapidated room he’d invaded earlier, he couldn’t help thinking of another woman. Prickly, clever, and surprisingly appealing Genevieve Barrett with her sharp tongue, snapping gray eyes, and voluptuous body. After tonight’s escapade, he found himself anticipating the coming days with an eagerness that would have astounded him this afternoon. Luring the vicar’s daughter into surrendering the Harmsworth Jewel promised entertainment beyond compare.

Chapter Three

First Genevieve noticed the dog.

She sat by the window staring vaguely outside, her embroidery ignored on her lap. The vicarage’s parlor overlooked a back lane running off the Oxford road. Across the room, her widowed aunt strove to entertain Lord Neville Fairbrother, who had called to see her father. This afternoon the vicar was with a parishioner and Lord Neville, to Genevieve’s regret, had decided to wait instead of returning to his nearby manor Youngton Hall. His lordship funded her papa’s scholarly endeavors, but she couldn’t like the man. Something about his deep-set eyes made her skin crawl and his oppressive presence sucked the air from a room.

When a large mongrel trotted along the lane, she straightened with surprise. In Little Derrick, stray dogs received scant welcome. The brindle hound sat on his haunches and checked back toward the corner. Within moments, a high-perch phaeton of an elegance rarely seen in these parts bowled into view.

Curiosity glued Genevieve to the window. The driver wore a beautifully cut coat and a beaver hat tipped at what even she recognized as a rakish angle. With the merest touch of his fingers, he controlled the pair of showy chestnut horses drawing the yellow and black carriage.

What brought such a swell to deepest Oxfordshire? He must be lost. The narrow lane led only to the vicarage’s stables. No man of style would find their humble abode of interest. Actually she couldn’t imagine why a man of style associated with such a déclassé mutt. The gypsies camped by the river would disdain such a dog, yet it was clear from the animal’s cheerful bark that he belonged to the driver.

The carriage and its spectacular horses, trailed by the less spectacular hound, disappeared around the wall surrounding the back garden. The man would discover his mistake soon enough and turn around, she supposed.

Genevieve waited for the man and his dog to reappear. A small drama to punctuate a dull afternoon. An afternoon that would have been considerably less dull if Lord Neville hadn’t hindered her scholarly pursuits. She had plans in train to change her life and his lordship’s presence interfered with their progress.

When the carriage didn’t immediately return, she lifted her needle with a sigh. She had little talent for embroidery, but it gave her an excuse to avoid talking to their visitor.

Dorcas, their maid, opened the door, clutching a small cardboard rectangle in her hand. Aunt Lucy had struggled to inculcate the habit of placing calling cards on a salver, but Dorcas couldn’t see the necessity. So far, Dorcas was winning that particular war. “Begging your pardon, missus, but the vicar has a visitor.”

Aunt Lucy stood to take the creased card, then passed it to Genevieve. Christopher Evans. The name meant nothing to her. “Did you say my father isn’t home?”

“Yes, miss. But he asks to wait.” Dorcas’s cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink. “He’s ever so handsome, miss. Pretty as a picture. And such a gentleman.”

Despite herself, Genevieve glanced at Lord Neville. He didn’t bother to hide his disapproval of Dorcas’s flutterings. “Tell the fellow to make an appointment, girl.”

How Genevieve would love to remind the arrogant oaf to mind his manners, but her father would never forgive her for alienating his patron. The vicar’s living and scholarly work covered essentials, but luxuries came thanks to Lord Neville’s support. “It could be something important.”

“Indeed.” Aunt Lucy ignored his lordship’s interjection. “Please invite Mr. Evans to step into the parlor.”

Genevieve laid aside her embroidery frame. Rising, she smoothed the skirts on her plain green muslin gown. The man who strolled into the room was the phaeton’s driver, as she’d expected. Although for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what business such a tulip of fashion had with her father.

While Dorcas might lack refinement, there was nothing wrong with her eyes. Mr. Evans was, indeed, handsome. Remarkably so.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. I’m Mrs. Warren, the vicar’s sister-in-law.”

“Your servant, Mrs. Warren.” Mr. Evans bowed over Aunt Lucy’s hand. Genevieve noted her aunt’s dazed admiration. “Please forgive my intrusion. Last night at Sedgemoor’s, the vicar was kind enough to ask me to call.”

Last night, the vicar had attended another dinner at Leighton Court. He’d come home in an incoherent lather at the attentions he’d received from the duke and his guests.

The newcomer’s voice was smooth, educated, and oddly familiar. Genevieve frowned as her mind winnowed where they’d met. Unlike her father, her life was not awash with new acquaintances. The only stranger she’d encountered recently was her mysterious burglar four days ago on the night of the vicar’s first visit to the manor.

Half-formed thoughts hurtling through her mind, she studied the stranger. Mr. Evans shared the burglar’s height but not his bright gold hair. This man’s hair was dull brown. His hair was the only dull thing about him. His face was lean and distinguished. His jaw was firm and determined. His clothing was remarkably elegant, for all that he dressed for the country.

What a fool she was to imagine a fleeting similarity. The Duke of Sedgemoor would hardly play host to a sneak thief. Her nerves were still on edge after the break-in.

“He didn’t mention your call,” Genevieve said steadily.

Mr. Evans turned to Genevieve and dark blue eyes, guileless as the sky, surveyed her top to toe. Lord Neville inspected her in a similar manner at every meeting. This time instead of aversion, she felt a frisson of feminine awareness. Every nerve tightened with warning. This man had predator stamped all over him.

“Is this an inconvenient time? I can come another day.” A quizzical expression lit Mr. Evans’s face and Genevieve realized he’d misunderstood her scowl. Apparently awkward social behavior at the vicarage wasn’t confined to the maid. Color pricked at her cheeks.

“Mr. Evans, I’m—”

A storm of screeching and hissing drowned her answer. Hecuba, her aged black cat, leaped onto Genevieve’s shoulder, dug her claws in, then launched herself at the high shelf lined with china plates. The dog barked once, then settled at his master’s heel.

“Good God!” Lord Neville jumped back. Aunt Lucy shrieked and cowered against her chair. Mr. Evans, who had until now struck her as a rather languid gentleman, moved with impressive speed to save a blue and white Delft plate that Genevieve had always hated.

“I’ll put Sirius outside,” he said calmly, handing her the dish.

The dog regarded her with reproach. He was behaving perfectly, so she felt like a traitor when she agreed. “That might be wise.”

“But first I’ll rescue your cat.”

“Hecuba doesn’t like men,” Genevieve said quickly, but Mr. Evans had already reached up. To her astonishment, Hecuba dived into his arms as fast as a gannet plunged into the sea after a herring.

“I see that,” he said solemnly. Somehow she knew that beneath his grave demeanor, he laughed at her.

“How bizarre,” she said, momentarily distracted from the chaos. Even from a few feet away, Genevieve heard purrs of delight as the big, lean man cradled Hecuba to his dark brown coat. She’d rescued Hecuba as a kitten from neighborhood lads attempting to set fire to her tail. Since then, the cat couldn’t abide the touch of any human male.

With a gentleness that made Genevieve’s foolish heart skip a beat, Mr. Evans passed Hecuba across. Hecuba’s reluctance to forsake her new beau was audible. The man snapped his fingers at the dog. “Come, Sirius. Outside.”

Genevieve still recovered from her odd reaction to the sight of those capable, deft hands handling her cat. She bent over Hecuba, hoping that nobody noticed that the usually unruffled Genevieve Barrett was indisputably ruffled.

Who was this fellow? Gentlemen of such address never came within her orbit. Or her father’s. Well, apart from the Duke of Sedgemoor. But he was so far beyond her touch, he hardly counted as a mortal man. Lord Neville might be wellborn, but he lacked the newcomer’s polish.

“Let Sirius stay.” She cursed her breathless tone. What on earth was wrong with her? At twenty-five, she was well past the giggly stage. Yet Mr. Evans had an extraordinary effect on her. He made her feel as though her world span out of control. And he’d done it with an ease that she couldn’t help resenting.

The man glanced at her and the laughter in his eyes stirred another shiver of awareness. She straightened against unwelcome giddiness. Mr. Christopher Evans was far too charming for his own good.

Or for hers.

“Thank you. He really is well trained.” As if to prove it, he clicked his fingers again and Sirius trotted to his side. Once more, Genevieve was struck by the contrast between the man’s breeding and the dog’s disreputable appearance.

“Allow me to make introductions.” She hoped Mr. Evans wouldn’t notice the catch in her voice, but she had a sinking feeling that he knew his power over susceptible women—among whom, apparently, she must count herself.

“This is my father’s friend, Lord Neville Fairbrother.” Genevieve couldn’t help contrasting Lord Neville’s blunt, swarthy features with Mr. Evans’s spare elegance.

“I hope I’m your friend too, Genevieve,” Lord Neville sniffed. He gave the stranger a distinctly condescending nod. “Evans.”

“Lord Neville.”

“And I’m Genevieve Barrett. Please sit down, Mr. Evans.” Her aunt had abdicated her duties as hostess in exchange for the delights of ogling their visitor. “I’ll ring for tea.”

“Thank you.” With a flourish, he settled on the spindly chair beside her aunt. The dog, as promised, behaved perfectly and lay at his side without glancing at Hecuba.

“My father is on parish duties.” Genevieve retreated to the window seat, still cuddling Hecuba.

The man smiled and Genevieve’s heart, which had almost settled into its usual rhythm, jumped again. Handsome? Mr. Christopher Evans, whoever he was, was downright beautiful.

“No matter. I hoped to extend my acquaintance in the neighborhood.”

Her skin prickled with preternatural warning. This didn’t sound good. This didn’t sound good at all. This sounded like he wasn’t just passing through. She wasn’t usually at the mercy of animal instinct, but every atom insisted that Mr. Evans wasn’t what he seemed. The moment he’d spoken, her heart had known him for a liar. And just what was he doing in Little Derrick?

“You’ll find no entertainment in this backwater,” Lord Neville said snidely as he resumed his chair.

“La, Lord Neville, you are unkind.”

Genevieve cringed at her aunt’s archness.

“Not at all.” He barely disguised his derision. “Beyond our scholarly circle, there’s precious little of interest.”

“His Grace recommended the scenic beauties of this corner of Oxfordshire.” Mr. Evans focused on Genevieve with intent that even a bluestocking couldn’t misread. “He didn’t exaggerate.”

Stupid, stupid blushes. She tried to hold Mr. Evans’s gaze, but her nerve failed and she stared out the window. She could already tell that he was an accomplished flirt. Even when the only female within reach was tall, awkward Genevieve Barrett with her ink-stained fingers.

Her hands tightened in Hecuba’s silky coat. The cat complained and wriggled free. Ignoring the dog, she twined around the furniture to leap into Mr. Evans’s lap. Immediately those hard capable hands curled around the black cat. Genevieve suppressed another discomfiting reaction.

A rattle along the back lane diverted her troubled thoughts. “Papa is here.”

“Excellent,” Lord Neville said. “He promised to show me that illuminated manuscript Carruthers sent.”

“I hear it’s a peach.” Mr. Evans’s enthusiasm wouldn’t shame the keenest medievalist.

Shocked, Genevieve met his brilliant eyes. “You’re an antiquarian, Mr. Evans?”

The doubt in her question had her aunt frowning. Poor Aunt Lucy. She’d lived at the vicarage since her sister’s death fifteen years ago, and she’d spent most of that time struggling to instill manners into her niece. With little success, Genevieve regretted to admit.

The mobile mouth quirked, although Mr. Evans answered politely enough. “In this company, I’d hesitate to describe myself as such.”

Too smooth by half, my fine fellow.

Her father bustled into the room, saving her from responding to their guest’s false modesty. “Lord Neville! An unexpected pleasure.” Then he turned and spoke with an unalloyed joy that set Lord Neville wincing. “And Mr. Evans! If I’d known you visited, I’d have put off my business. I so enjoyed our discussion last night. Have they given you tea? No? Goodness, what will you think of us? A bunch of country mice, begad.”

The vicar wasn’t a quiet presence. His voice bounced off the walls and set the dog twitching. Genevieve’s father strode across the room to wring Mr. Evans’s hand with a zeal that made Genevieve, inclined to disapprove of the newcomer, bristle with resentment. Her father was a man of international reputation, however ill-deserved. He didn’t need to toady to the quality.

She sighed, heartily wishing that Mr. Evans would slouch back to wherever he came from. Already she could foresee conflict between him and Lord Neville, and she didn’t feel up to dealing with another of her father’s crazes.

Fleetingly Genevieve observed her father as a stranger might. Tall, graying, distinguished, with a distracted air that indicated a mind fixed on higher things. Once she’d believed that. Now however much she loved him with a stubborn affection that never wavered, she couldn’t contain the coldness that crept into their relations. Her father looked like an Old Testament prophet, but at heart he was a selfish, weak man.

Dorcas chose that moment to bring in the tea tray. The small parlor became uncomfortably crowded. Advancing toward the table, the maid danced around the vicar. Genevieve blushed to see milk splash from the jug. Mr. Evans really would think they were bumpkins. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t give a groat what Mr. Evans thought.

Genevieve managed to serve tea without tripping over any of the room’s occupants, animal or human. Lord Neville drew her father into a discussion of some scholarly point. Her aunt engaged Mr. Evans in conversation about local amenities. Genevieve retired to the window seat and retrieved her embroidery.

She inhaled and struggled for calm. Absurd to let a handsome face affect her so. She’d always accounted herself immune to masculine attractions. Certainly none of the men in her father’s circle had set anything but intellect buzzing. Her reaction to Mr. Evans had nothing at all to do with intellect and it frightened her.

“How charming to see a lady at her sewing.”

Skeptically Genevieve glanced up. Mr. Evans leaned against the window frame, watching her. In his arms, that hussy Hecuba looked utterly enraptured.

“I like to keep busy, Mr. Evans.” She didn’t soften the edge in her voice. He needed to know that not every denizen of Little Derrick’s vicarage was ready to roll over and present a belly for scratching. However, the picture of lying before him begging for caresses was so vivid, her wayward color rose. She prayed he didn’t notice.

When he placed Hecuba on the floor, the cat regarded both humans with sulky displeasure before stalking away. He plucked the embroidery frame from Genevieve’s hold. She waited for some complimentary remark. For purposes that she hadn’t yet fathomed, the man seemed determined to charm.

A silence fell. Genevieve dared a glance. He maintained a scrupulously straight face.

“It’s a peony,” she said helpfully.

His mouth lengthened but, to give him credit, he didn’t laugh. “I … see that.”

“Really?” She retrieved her embroidery and inspected it closely. Even she, who knew what it was supposed to represent, had trouble discerning the subject.

Without invitation, Mr. Evans settled on the window seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and extended his long, booted legs across the faded rug. Surreptitiously she inched away.

“I believe you assist your father with his work.”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t have said anything more liable to annoy her. Her eyes narrowed and old grievances cramped her stomach. “I am most helpful, sir,” she said flatly.

The evening light through the window lay across his hair but caught no shine in the brown. Hecuba rubbed against his ankles, purring fit to explode. Catching Lord Neville’s glower from across the room, Genevieve bent over her sewing. Surely he didn’t imagine she encouraged this decorative interloper. And even if he thought that, he had no right to censure her behavior.

“At Leighton Court last night, the vicar praised your abilities.”

“Are you surprised to hear of a woman using her brains?” she asked with a sweetness that would warn anyone who knew her.

He sighed and leveled a surprisingly perceptive regard upon her. “I have a nasty feeling that somewhere I’ve taken a wrong step with you, Miss Barrett.”

For a bristling moment, she stared into his face and wondered why she was so certain that he had ulterior motives.

“It hardly matters.” She should turn his comment aside. After all, he wasn’t likely to become a fixture in her life. Even if he lingered in the neighborhood, the vicarage’s fusty medievalists would soon bore him.

“If I’ve inadvertently offended, please accept my apologies.”

Curse him, he’d shifted closer and his arm draped along the windowsill behind her. She stiffened and, abandoning pride, slid toward the corner. “Mr. Evans, you are presumptuous.”

His lips twitched. “Miss Barrett, you are correct.”

“Pray be presumptuous at a greater distance.”

His laugh was low and attractive. “How can I argue when you’re armed?”

She realized that she brandished the needle like a miniature sword. Despite her annoyance, the scene’s absurdity struck her and she choked back a laugh. She stabbed the needle into a full-blown peony that sadly resembled a sunburned chicken. “You waste your attentions, sir.”

“I hate to think so,” he said with a soft intensity that had her regarding him with little short of horror. Was that a challenge? And how on earth should she respond?

Luckily her father spoke. “Mr. Evans, Lord Neville wants to see that codex. Are you interested?”

The vicar’s question shattered the taut silence. Mr. Evans blinked as if emerging from a trance. She realized she’d been searching his face with as much attention as she gave a historical document.

He turned toward her father. “Of course, sir. Lead on.”

Without the gentlemen and Sirius, the parlor felt forlorn. As though Mr. Evans’s departure leached the light away. Genevieve glanced across to where her aunt stared into space, hands loose in her lap.

“What a lovely man,” she said dreamily.

Genevieve stifled a growl and stood to collect the teacups and place them onto the tray. “He thinks he is.”