His steward, Matthews, had left various documents prominently displayed on his desk; he forced himself to attend to the most urgent, but left all the rest. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the volume of maps he’d carried in. Abruptly, he swiveled the chair so its back was to the desk, and he was facing the window and the undemanding view.
He had to find his mental footing, determine where he was and where he wanted to be—and then work out how to get there. Not, as he’d supposed, solely in terms of his investigation, but, it now seemed, with his personal quest, too.
He’d arrived at the Abbey three days ago with two goals before him, both needing to be urgently addressed—one professional goal, his investigation, and his personal goal, his search for a wife. It had been unsettling to discover that his way forward with both involved Penny.
Of all the potential ladies in the ton, he hadn’t considered her, because he hadn’t believed she would consider him. He’d always known that she could be his wife, that she could fill all aspects of the position without effort—if she would. He hadn’t imagined after the way they’d parted thirteen years ago that she might, but after kissing her an hour ago, he now knew beyond question that the possibility was there, and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance of turning that possibility into reality.
Possibility. He wouldn’t, yet, rate it as more. From the moment he’d stepped close to her in the upstairs corridor at midnight, he’d been aware of her response to him, that it was as it had been all those years ago—intense, immediate, always there. Over the past days, he’d known every time her senses had flared; he wasn’t sure she knew how acutely his senses spiked at her reaction, how sensually attuned to her he was.
Yet none knew better than he and she that that connection wasn’t, of itself, enough. It hadn’t been years ago; he doubted it would be now.
He needed to build on it, to pursue it and her, explore what lay between them, what might evolve from that, and where it might lead them.
In between pursuing his investigation.
That wasn’t very wise. Indeed. She remained his most direct link to the Selbornes’ scheme; he now had to deal with her on two different levels simultaneously, juggling the investigation and his personal pursuit of her.
Yet he couldn’t regret kissing her; he’d had to learn whether the possibility was there. He’d been tempted to kiss her in the courtyard at Wallingham, but it hadn’t been the right time or place. He’d pulled back, but when on their way from the stables she’d smiled at him and acknowledged she’d been right to trust him with her family’s secret, he’d been buoyed and encouraged enough to seize the moment, to learn if she would trust him in that other sphere, too. Whether there was a chance he could mend their fences even if he wasn’t sure what had flattened them in the first place.
Such uncertainty, unfortunately, was his norm with her. He was an expert with women; he’d studied them for years, understood their minds, and was adept at managing them—all except Penny. She…he was never sure how to deal with her, had never succeeded in managing her, and had long ago given up attempting to manipulate her—the result had never been worth the price. For one of his ilk, such complete and utter failure with a woman was hard to stomach, and somewhat unnerving; he was always alert and watchful with her.
But that kiss had answered his question. Not only had she allowed him to kiss her, she’d enjoyed it and kissed him back, deliberately and considerably prolonging the interlude.
Well and good. He’d cleared the first hurdle, but he knew her too well to presume too much. All he’d gained was a chance to progress to the next stage, to determine how real the possibility that she might consent to be his wife was, how real his chance to convert wish into fact.
He sat staring unseeing out of the window while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked on; eventually, its chiming drew him back, reminding him of the other challenge requiring his attention.
Swinging back to his desk, he turned his mind to his mission. There, at least, the way forward was clear. The information Caudel, an exposed villain, had divulged before he’d died seemed in essence correct; it was now up to him, Charles, to ferret out the details and hand them over to Dalziel. He was very good at ferreting; one way or another, he’d get to the bottom of the Selbornes’ scheme.
First things first. Reaching for the book of maps, he set it on his blotter and opened it.
Penny wandered the gardens, thinking, to her considerable distraction reliving those minutes on the lawn under the trees. Those minutes she’d spent in Charles’s arms. She could still feel his lips on hers, still feel the effects of the kiss; it had definitely not been a wise indulgence.
On the other hand, it had been fated to happen; that elemental attraction she recognized from long ago had been steadily building over the past days and would inevitably have led to the same culmination, somewhere, sometime. He’d been right to choose an unthreatening setting. Now he’d kissed her and his curiosity—if she was truthful both their curiosities—had been appeased and satisfied, presumably that would be the end of it.
She paused, frowning at a rosebush. It wouldn’t, of course, be the end of her susceptibility—that, she’d realized, was an affliction for life—but presumably they could now put their mutual attraction behind them, ignore it, or at least accord it no importance. That undoubtedly was the best way forward; that was what she would do.
His investigation had only just commenced; as she intended to be beside him throughout, getting that kiss out of the way had been a good thing.
She returned to the parlor. When Charles didn’t reappear, she muttered an oath, then rang for tea; when Filchett entered with the tray, she told him to follow her and headed for the study. She knocked once, barely waited for Charles’s “Come” before opening the door and walking in. “It’s time for tea.”
He looked up, met her gaze, paused as if considering his response.
Blithely waving Filchett to the desk, she sat in one of the chairs before it. She heard Charles’s half-stifled sigh as he set down his pen and shut her father’s book to make room for the tray.
He’d been composing some list; that much she’d seen. She waited until Filchett withdrew. Sitting forward, she picked up the pot and poured. “What have you decided?”
If he thought she was going to let him deal her out of this game, he was mistaken. Lifting her cup from the tray, she sat back.
He looked at her, then picked up his cup and saucer. “My ex-commander’s focus is on identifying who in the ministry handed your father and Granville the information we’re assuming they traded for the pillboxes. Making a case against your father or Granville won’t interest him; not only are they dead, but they’re also clearly not the prime instigators of the scheme. Your father never had access to government secrets; he remained in the country most of his life—no self-respecting French agent would have even considered approaching him.”
“You think Amberly was the instigator.”
He sipped his tea, nodded. “Originally, yes. You said your father started collecting pillboxes while staying with Amberly in Paris. However, Amberly retired seven years ago, and the passage of information continued until recently.”
“So the baton, as it were, was passed from father to son, both in Amberly’s case as well as Papa’s?”
“It fits. Especially with dear Nicholas hot-footing it down here just as I appear on the scene.”