The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

She wondered how far Lord Deveril would go to protect her if the truth were revealed. For the thousandth time, she wondered if she should simply surrender the tablet, reassure her family of her safety, and then retire into ignominious and impoverished obscurity. If she weren’t so afraid that scandal wouldn’t somehow affect Lucy’s matrimonial chances, she would do just that. But what about the scandal and speculation as to what the murdered professor’s supposedly chaste daughter had been doing the past nine months? Her sordid existence would no doubt be revealed. She’d become gossip sheet fodder; she had no doubt.

And then there was the very real fear that Lord Griffith – who had killed twice – would stop at nothing to ensure the integrity of his reputation. If he had the chance, he’d get rid of Jemima, by whatever means at his disposal.

Jemima would ever be completely free from servitude, and independent of the shackles of any master, if she could regain the tablet and follow its directions in order to claim the treasure. A woman of independent fortune was a rare commodity and to be secure, she could not rely on any man. Deveril claimed he loved her but Jemima would not trust him to help her in her quest.

Now Lord Griffith was in the same room and Jemima had never felt in greater peril.

Through careful inquiries, she’d learned he eschewed London, preferring the solitude of the country where he was obsessed with his collection of antiquities. His antiquities! Hers amongst them, though he did not know it.

Finally, thank the Lord, he rose and, without a backward glance, quit the room. Surreptitiously, she’d paused in her reading to glance through the window and down into the street. She s

aw his tall, gaunt figure, haloed by the light of a street lamp, before he climbed into his carriage and departed.

Jemima had to find out what he’d said. What had brought him here? Was he looking for her? Had he been led here on the basis of information he’d received? Yet Lord Griffith hadn’t surveyed the room with any great interest.

Putting her book down, she smiled regretfully at the gentlemen ranged before her. “Pray excuse me, but a lady must have some time to herself,” she murmured, rising. Even Lord Deveril let her go with a smile and a caress.

She was careful not to pause for any significant time as she passed Lord Ruthcot, who was still seated where Lord Griffith had left him.

“Please explain the significance of the Roman bust on the plinth over by the tapestry,” she said softly as she passed him, hoping he understood her need for discretion. She wasn’t surprised he was shortly at her side. “No need to be so close, Lord Ruthcot,” she said, stepping back, “when I only wish to pass a few moments in idle conversation.”

He dropped his eyes, then glanced across the room, no doubt to ascertain they weren’t in Deveril’s sights.

“Forgive me. Did you receive the note I sent—?”

“It only put me in greater danger. I didn’t need to hear your apology when your actions proclaimed so loudly your view of me. Your apology was designed to cool my anger, merely.”

“So you will never forgive me?”

“I think perhaps the fact you…disappointed me, was indeed fortunate.” She sent him a rueful look, which clearly made its mark. Oh yes, he should be filled with mortification. What had overcome him? Mindless lust, of course. He was like all men, and she’d been a fool to imagine otherwise. “Your behavior was a timely reminder that I must always be on my guard. Clearly, there is no one who won’t try to take advantage, having made up their minds that what I am gives them license to treat me with scant respect. I’ll admit it—with sadness, Lord Ruthcot—that for a few brief moments, I gave myself up to mindless passion. In your arms.” Careful there was no passing servant or guest to overhear, she wanted him to know the truth.

“I sensed it. Felt it.” His low growl had risen in passion, and she sent him a warning glare. He turned his head away, but didn’t dampen the fervor in his tone. “Don’t you see that was why I got carried away? Because I knew you reciprocated everything I felt.”

“I think you put a rather different slant on it, Lord Ruthcot. I felt passion and the desire to feel love for a short time. You felt lust and entitled to act upon it given you were kissing a whore. When I realized the truth, I also realized that’s all I would be in your eyes. Men lust after me, but none will truly love me.”

“Untrue!”

“Hush! Keep your voice down. By the way, I thank you for the rubbing you sent me. To atone? Well, it doesn’t matter, but it is a great pleasure to me. Now I wish to ask you something. What do you know of Lord Griffith?”

He looked like he would continue to speak on the topic she was making clear was already dealt with. At her warning look, he shrugged. “Very little. Apparently, he and my brother were once friends. They shared a love of antiquities.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow. “Antiquities. A popular pastime for the idle aristocrat.”

“And a source of competition. He’s invited me to his estate over Yuletide, and suggested I might bring my most valuable example for the interest of some of the other antiquarians whom I’m to meet.”

For a moment, she was struck dumb. She hoped the shock didn’t register upon her face as she bent her head, pretending great interest in a tiny anomaly on the surface of the object before her. “Good heavens, Lord Ruthcot! And will you go?”

“I’ve not made up my mind.”

Jemima thought quickly. “Perhaps you could persuade him to invite Lord Deveril.”

He shot her a look of surprise. “Why?”

She shrugged. “You know of my own passion for antiquities.”

“An unusual passion for a woman.”

“You think so?” She shrugged again, desperate to maintain her equilibrium when she was quaking like a jelly inside. “Still, I would be grateful if you would find some discreet way of including Deveril in the invitation.”