Rumor, which swirled around Fortune’s Folly like the current of the River Tune, said that Sampson had added to his money through various criminal activities but nothing had ever been proven. Now it seemed that Hawkesbury was set on finding that proof and that Rowarth would use her in any way possible to bring Sampson down.
Eve shuddered. She knew that if Rowarth had Hawkesbury’s authority he could enforce whatever he wished and if Hawkesbury believed her guilty of criminal activity then she had no hope. Suddenly she felt so tired, so vulnerable to this man and to the insidious appeal that he still had for her and so miserable that he had nothing but disdain for her now. It appalled and distressed her that he had accepted Lord Hawkesbury’s commission to bring her down.
But such regrets would not save her. With a sigh, she gestured Rowarth to a seat on one of the rather rickety wooden chairs at the side of her desk. Accounts and correspondence spilled from the table onto the floor. She gave vent to her feelings by giving the papers a violent shove so that the ones still on the desk cascaded onto the floor.
Realizing that Rowarth was waiting, with impeccable manners, for her to sit first, she pushed some books aside and took a chair. He immediately sat down opposite her. His presence seemed to fill the space between them, powerful, authoritative. The room suddenly seemed too small, cramped and close, and it was nothing to do with the piles of goods that were stored in there. It was simply that Alasdair Rowarth had always been the most overwhelming man that Eve had ever met and she felt angry that he could still affect her in such a profound way.
To cover her nervousness she tilted up her chin and subjected him to a stern appraisal.
“You cannot have any evidence at all to back up these ridiculous accusations,” she said. “They are absolutely untrue.”
Rowarth inclined his head. His hair, glossy and thick, shone in a ray of sunlight that penetrated the dusty window. He looked self-assured, Eve thought, with all the confidence that privilege and position could bring. It only served to make her feel all the more vulnerable.
“The Home Secretary’s agents have had your shop under observation for several months,” he said. “They know that you are fencing stolen goods.” He picked up the silver hairbrush again and looked thoughtfully at it. “I am sure you are aware there have been a number of robberies locally.”
“No,” Eve said. Her immediate instinct was to protect herself and Joan and all she had worked to build up. But she could see as soon as the words left her mouth that Rowarth did not believe her. His gaze rested on her face with the perceptive intensity that she remembered. She blushed and saw the corner of his mouth lift in a smile, as though she had just confirmed her guilt. She could have kicked herself.
“If stolen goods are being passed through this shop it is entirely without my knowledge,” she temporized.
Rowarth held her gaze, his own implacable. Eve shivered to see the coldness there where once there had been nothing but heat and sweetness for her.
“That does not make you innocent,” Rowarth said.
“It makes me a victim of Sampson’s criminality,” Eve said sharply, “not an accomplice.”
Rowarth raised his brows in blatant disbelief but he did not challenge her immediately. Instead he picked up a monograph of some very naughty erotic drawings that Eve had failed to notice was lying on the desk. As he flicked through the pictures Eve started to feel unconscionably heated, her mind conjuring up visions of the past, of her body locked with Rowarth’s in the most intimate and sensual of embraces, his mouth hot against the bare skin of her inner thigh, her cries of need as his tongue flicked her tender core, the bliss as he took her, pushing her to the extremes of pleasure…
She tried to steady her breathing. Her pulse was fluttering like a trapped butterfly. Her skin tingled and she felt light-headed. She fanned herself surreptitiously, watching as Rowarth assessed the saucy sketches, brows slightly raised, a faint smile still on his lips. Her fingers were itching to snatch the book away from him and put an end to her embarrassment. And then he looked up and the turbulent desire in his eyes flared strong and elemental, and Eve felt the need knot in her stomach and almost gasped aloud.
“What an interesting variety of items you must take in here,” Rowarth said, a rough undertone to his voice. He shifted, clearing his throat. “These, I would guess, are the property of Mr. Tom Fortune. I hear he has an extensive library of such books.”
“I never divulge details about my clients,” Eve snapped. She pulled herself back from the brink of sensual awareness. If Rowarth could exercise such control against the ghosts of the past then so could she.
Rowarth’s gaze had moved on to a rather fine ruby bracelet that was nestling in a cut glass bowl.
“That is pretty.”
“It’s made of paste,” Eve said quickly and untruthfully. The bracelet was not in fact a fake, but Eve was desperately hoping that the Dowager Duchess of Cole, who had brought it in, would find the funds to buy it back. She had seen the look of despair on Laura Cole’s face when she had pawned her jewelry and had guessed that it was of great sentimental value. She had given the Dowager Duchess a very generous sum for she knew that Laura Cole and her little daughter were poverty-stricken.
Rowarth permitted the rubies to slide through his fingers before looking up at her. “You seem reluctant to sell.”
“I was not aware that you were buying,” Eve said. “I thought you were here to threaten me instead.”
“Touché.” He smiled at her
suddenly. It was devastating. “You fight damned hard, Eve.”
“I always did.”
“I know.”
For one short, achingly fragile moment their eyes met and held and Eve’s heart tumbled to see the tenderness in his, and then it was gone, swept aside by a coldness so bitter that she felt shrivelled and frozen. Rowarth broke the contact, stretching in his chair, muscles rippling beneath the blue superfine of his coat. “Hawkesbury’s intelligence is that you are extremely liberal in the sums you offer to clients, sometimes giving far more than an item is worth,” he said. His voice had chilled, too. “Apparently if you know a client is attached to a particular item you will keep it safe for them to reclaim when they can afford it, rather than sell it. If you know some of your clients are pawning their last stick of furniture in order to buy gin to drink themselves into a stupor, you will try to persuade them off the bottle.”
“And your point?” Eve asked tartly. “I thought that you were the prosecution not the defense.”
“My point,” Rowarth said with an edge to his voice, “is that such generosity would make you vulnerable to blackmail. You do not have the skill to make your business profitable by legitimate means and so it seems you have resorted to illegitimate ones in order to keep afloat. Perhaps Sampson was able to blackmail you into his bed and his business because of your poverty?”
“That is entirely false,” Eve said, stung by the harshness of his judgment. “I bought the shop, but I could not buy the business acumen to go with it. I have tried my best and yes, you are correct, I struggle because I tend to be too kind to my clients. Nevertheless, I would never resort to criminal means for my livelihood.”