“That is Tom Fortune,” Miles said, listening intently, “not Warren Sampson.” He spun around as Rowarth let out an oath and, opening the balcony doors, ran back inside the house.
“I say, old fellow, you can’t intervene now,” Miles protested. “You’ll ruin everything!”
“No, I won’t,” Rowarth said harshly. “I’ll be doing what I should have done long ago, devil take it.” He was already slamming out of the room, his footsteps echoing across the floor as he headed toward the stairs.
“As I said, I knew it was a mistake to recruit an amateur,” Miles said, but he was smiling as he followed Rowarth out.
Eve had found the library in near darkness, lit only by a single stand of candles that cast long shadows up the wall. It was also empty and for a moment Eve was relieved, for Warren Sampson’s absence at least gave her a moment to collect herself. She drew a deep breath, leaning against the long central table, which bore a breathtakingly tasteless vase of lolling lilies. Misery and regret beat through her body as she thought of the bitter words she had exchanged with Rowarth.
It was so pointless, so foolish, to want to go back, to wish to change the past. She had run from Rowarth in the first place because she had had no choice and nothing had changed. Five years ago she had turned her back on all that they had had because he had wanted to wed her and she had known that it was utterly impossible.
When first Rowarth had proposed marriage to her she had been astounded but he would entertain no opposition nor accept any refusal from her. He had rejected all her objections that she was unsuitable, that she had been born out of wedlock, that she had no education, that she had been his mistress and so it was utterly unacceptable for her to be his wife and even more inappropriate for her to be a duchess. He had swept it all aside, confident and happy, buoyed up by his love for her. He was a duke—he could do as he wished. And for a while Eve had been swept along, too, believing that they could be happy.
But then she had found out that she was pregnant and had lost the baby almost in the same instant. She had been ill, dreadfully ill, and Dr. Culpepper had told her that she would never bear another child. The news had been the bitterest blow that she had ever had to accept in her life. Even now she could not think about it without the pain expanding in her chest and stealing her breath and making her want to weep. She had thought herself hardened to every misfortune that life could throw at her. She had dealt with more than her share. But this grief was a different matter. It was a black, aching emptiness, a jagged pain that caught her at unexpected moments like a thief in the dark. It sapped her soul until she was so tired and worn that sometimes she had not known how she had carried on.
Rowarth had been away on business, visiting his estates in Kent, and by the time he had returned to London Eve had packed up and gone, knowing that she could never be his wife now, that it was all at an end, that fairy tales did not happen to the likes of little Eve Nightingale. Even if a duke was unconventional enough to marry his mistress he needed a son to carry on the title and inherit the estates that he had cared for so dutifully all these years. But she would never, ever be able to give Rowarth children and it had broken her heart and it would break his, too, if he ever knew…
Eve straightened, rubbing the tears from her cheeks with impatient fingers.
Fool to cry. She had always known that everything that had once been precious and sweet and true between them was long gone. She had always known there could be no going back for them.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mrs. Nightingale.”
Eve had been so wrapped up in her grief that she had not heard the door open but now she saw not Warren Sampson, as she might have expected, but Tom Fortune bearing down upon her, a glass of wine in one hand, a wolfish smile on his lips. She straightened quickly, masking her distress.
“I am sorry,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “I thought that Mr. Sampson was joining me.”
Fortune smiled again. “He will be here presently.” He came so close to her that she could smell the stale sweat on his body and the wine on his breath. Eve’s nerves tightened. There was something feral about Tom Fortune, something dangerous. She had met men like him before and knew precisely what they wanted. She looked around for something with which to arm herself but the fire irons were out of reach, as were the heavy china figurines on the mantel. She wondered where Rowarth and his colleagues had stationed themselves in order to witness her springing the trap on Sampson. She hoped they were close enough to intervene. But of course they would not do so. Her heart plummeted as she thought about it. Since Rowarth was happy enough for her to seduce Warren Sampson in the interests of eliciting a confession, no doubt he expected her to seduce Tom Fortune as well if the situation required it.
“Now then, Mrs. Nightingale,” Fortune was saying, “I believe that you had a business proposition you wished to discuss?”
Eve gave him a cool look. “For Mr. Sampson’s ears only,” she said politely.
Fortune laughed. He ran one finger down Eve’s bare arm and she tried not to flinch away. “You can tell me,” he murmured. “Mr. Sampson trusts me to handle his business affairs.”
“Does he indeed?” Eve said, raising her brows. “Was it Mr. Sampson’s business that brought you to my shop?”
Tom Fortune’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a very sharp look. “No indeed,” he said. “That was a personal financial embarrassment, I fear.”
“Selling off your brother’s silver to pay your debts?” Eve said. “A pity. I had thought…hoped…that there might be more business potential in the situation than that.”
Tom was very still, watching her like a snake watching a mouse. “What exactly are you suggesting, Mrs. Nightingale?”
“As I said,” Eve said, turning away and feigning boredom, “that is for discussion with Mr. Sampson only.”
Tom laughed. “Then if you will not talk to me,” he murmured, “I suggest that we pass the time until Mr. Sampson’s arrival in more pleasurable ways.” He lingered suggestively over the words. “You must know, Mrs. Nightingale, that in your case Mr. Sampson would deem it a positive delight to mix business with pleasure.”
“And you expect a share in that…pleasure, too, I suppose,” Eve said, trying to edge away from him. Tom Fortune followed her until they were in danger, Eve thought a little hysterically, of chasing one another around the table.
“I always try the goods out myself first,” Tom agreed. He moved quickly, grabbing her arm and pressing a damp kiss on the curve of her neck. Suddenly his hands seemed to be everywhere, down the neck of her gown, grasping for her skirts. It was intolerable and suddenly Eve knew she would rather be dead than succumb to him, Rowarth and Hawkesbury be damned. She tried to free a hand to strike him, but Fortune was st
rong and determined. She managed to reach for the huge phallic vase in the center of the table and brought it down on his head. Fortune swore. Water cascaded everywhere. Lilies flew in all directions. And in the same moment the door of the library was flung open and Rowarth, all urbane elegance gone, charged across the room, grabbed Tom Fortune by the neck cloth, dragged him away from Eve and struck him so hard and so scientifically that the man seemed to arc across the library before landing in the fireplace with a crash.
“Damned scoundrel,” he growled.
Miles Vickery, who had followed Rowarth into the room, went across to check on Fortune. “Out cold,” he said. “You always did have a dangerous left hook, Rowarth.”
“Rowarth,” Eve said, her hands pressed to her cheeks, torn between laughter and tears, “I do believe you have completely sabotaged your own commission.”