A Most Sinful Proposal (The Husband Hunters Club 2)

Marissa laughed. “If he was a hat then I would purchase him in a heartbeat and—and never let him go.”

Her grandmother’s face softened. “Good,” she said, as if that was the end of that. She became preoccupied again, tapping her cheek with her fingertip. “Now, what else do we need? Nightdresses! And I believe I know exactly where to find them.”

Augustus was seated by a window, gazing out into the garden at the back of the house. His gray hair was cut shorter than before and he looked thinner, tall and gangly, rather than the imposing figure Valentine remembered from their previous encounters.

The superintendent spoke his name, and introduced his visitor in a jovial tone that rang false, and then, with a nod at Valentine, left them alone. Valentine walked over to the window, seating himself in a chair nearby, but Augustus did not make any sign that he knew he was there.

“How are you, Augustus?” he ventured at last.

Slowly, as if the words barely registered, the baron turned and looked at him with his cold, pale eyes.

“It’s Valentine,” he said, leaning forward. “Your brother.”

Augustus smiled, just a flicker of his lips, and then made a slight gesture toward the garden outside. “The rose isn’t there,” he said, his voice dry and husky. “I’ve checked.”

“The rose is lost,” Valentine replied, with a grimace. “We must both accept it.”

But Augustus didn’t seem willing to let it go. He frowned and then shook his head. “I have seen it.”

Valentine felt shock ripple through him. He waited for the baron to go on, and when he didn’t, urged him with, “You’ve seen the Crusader’s Rose?”

“Yes.” The baron swallowed, as if his throat was too dry, and looking around Valentine saw a jug of water and a glass, and poured some out, handing it to him. He drank thirstily. “A year ago. In a church. There was a great bunch of roses and it was there, right there. I could hardly believe my eyes. But when I asked the vicar he did not know where it had come from, and although I questioned his wife, too, she could not say who had given it.”

Valentine sat, trying to think, wondering if it was true or simply one of Von Hautt’s fantasies. “So you never found the origin of the rose in the church?”

“No.”

“Where was this church?”

A sly look came over his face and he tightened his lips childishly, as though that way he could prevent any words from escaping.

“Augustus,” Valentine said with a sigh, “we are brothers, remember? You can tell me.”

But he shook his head.

Valentine let the silence continue a moment. He told himself there was no point in continuing with questions about the rose. What he really needed to do was ask Augustus about his accomplice.

“I need your help in a very important matter, Augustus.”

The pale eyes turned to him, watchful, curious, waiting.

“Who is it at Abbey Thorne Manor who helped you? I know there was someone. Will you tell me their name?”

Augustus’s face brightened and he smiled. “Bo-bo,” he said promptly.

“Bo-bo? Who is Bo-bo?”

That secretive look again, and the overemphasized tightening of his lips.

“Don’t you want Bo-bo to come and visit you here?”

He did; his eyes gave him away.

“If Bo-bo is to visit you, you must tell me who Bo-bo is.”

The baron was torn. For a moment Valentine hoped he had won and that he would hear the name he desperately sought, but then the baron seemed to change his mind. Or lose interest. He shrugged and looked away, back to the window. His voice was so quiet Valentine had to strain to hear it.

“Bo-bo said never to tell.”