Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12. Ann Lethbridge

to glimpse last night. He took the sheet Eyepatch thrust at him, absorbing her brief but lethal jottings swiftly; then he said levelly to Rosalie, ‘Well, madam? Are you or are you not responsible for this pack of lies?’

      She prayed fervently for the ground to open up and swallow her. He must be the rackrenter. The owner of Two Crows Castle. The man whom she’d allowed, to her eternal shame, to kiss her last night. All she could hope was that, in her spinsterly garb, he would continue not to recognise her. And it was too late, now, for denial; she just had to brazen this out.

      ‘Lies?’ She lifted her veiled face to boldly meet his dark gaze. ‘Perhaps you just cannot stomach the truth!’

      Eyepatch gave a nasty leer. ‘Oh, you’re a brave ‘un, to challenge the honour of Alec Stewart, the best swordsman in town!’

      Oh, my God. This time she really did feel the blood freeze in her veins. ‘Did you say—Alec Stewart?’

      The Captain surveyed her, still clearly puzzled by her veiled visage. ‘That’s me all right,’ he said narrowly.

      And horror—nausea—shook her.

      For the name Linette had breathed as she lay dying was—Alec Stewart.

Chapter Seven

      Alec had been up and about early, for he’d had appointments to keep. But he’d arrived back at Two Crows Castle to find the place in utter uproar, because of some sanctimonious lady do-gooder. Alec read those scribbled notes Garrett had handed him with dawning disbelief. ‘The scandalous practice of rackrenting … rapacious landlords … Two Crows Castle …’

      Hell and damnation!

      Well, the charity lady who’d penned this heap of lies had made one mighty bad mistake. She hadn’t run fast enough. Alec’s men were holding her tight; as he tried to scan her face, which was all but hidden by a truly hideous bonnet and veil, Alec began to feel sheer shock coursing through his veins.

      ‘Take off that bonnet,’ he grated at her.

      ‘No! I won’t!’ The slender captive was struggling again in Garrett and Ackroyd’s strong grip.

      Alec walked up to her and pulled the repulsive thing off himself. Swathes of long, silver-blonde hair fell around her face. His men gasped. One or two of them whistled softly and clicked their tongues in lewd sounds of appreciation. ‘God’s blood, Captain, she’s a ripe little piece!’ ‘Take off her cloak, then we can all ‘ave a good look …’

      ‘Shut up,’ Alec told his men. And he grimly readjusted to this new reality.

      Yesterday this do-gooder had been parading her delectable wares on stage at the Temple of Beauty. Last night the taste of her softly parted pink lips had disturbed his dreams. All through the hours of darkness he’d been haunted by images of her long fair hair cascading around her breasts, her naked limbs entwined with his between silken sheets … Yet this morning, she was dressed like a church mouse—a very defiant church mouse—and was in possession of some hideously insulting notes about himself and his men. Who the hell was she? What was she playing at?

      He rapped out to her, ‘Who wrote this filth? And why is it in your possession?’

      She tossed her lovely wild hair back from her face. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

      He registered the swiftly concealed fear in those blue eyes, along with something else that was almost hatred. But then it was gone again, replaced by steadfast defiance. ‘Take her inside,’ he ordered Garrett. ‘We’ll keep her here until she changes her mind.’

      ‘No!’ She started struggling again. ‘You cannot do this!’

      ‘Try me,’ was Alec Stewart’s terse answer.

      Two of his men led her down a stone staircase and locked her in the basement, where the only light came in through a high-up single window. Rosalie had fought them all the way, but now she simply stood and shivered with cold and fear as her faith in her own judgement came crashing down around her.

      Alec Stewart. Last night, he’d seemed—different. He’d assumed she was a whore and that hurt, but otherwise he’d seemed totally unlike the rest of the men at that hateful Temple of Beauty—so much so that she, Rosalie, whose defences against men she’d considered bullet-proof, had let him kiss her. And had felt her insides melt with a strange, sweet sensation she’d never experienced before.

      Could he be Linette’s seducer? Yet there must be many more men of that name! Wildly she clutched at straws. His name had not, after all, been listed in Dr Barnard’s secret book as having visited the Temple that fateful June nearly three years ago!

      Her heart sank again. He might have given a false name to the doorman. And it might have taken only one night for him to cast his spell on Linette and whisk her away. For heaven’s sake, she, Rosalie, had submitted to his charms swiftly enough! Captain Alec Stewart. He has a castle, Rosalie. A wonderful castle …

      Clearly he’d never brought her sister to this crumbling heap. Her stomach cramped in torment. If it was him, he probably didn’t know or care that Linette was dead. Probably didn’t even remember her.

      Rosalie would never, ever have guessed. But then, neither had Linette. You idiot, Rosalie. You thought Linette was so stupid, thought yourself so clever … She paced the floor. She lacerated herself with reproach.

      Suddenly she thought she heard low voices out in the passageway. She’d been in here how long? An hour? It felt like for ever. She heard a bolt being drawn back and, as the door opened, she sprang round to face it.

      Alec Stewart walked slowly into the room, loosening his necktie with his right hand. There was an unreadable look in his hard dark eyes, and somehow the sheer physicality of him, the extremity of male power emanating from that rangy, muscular body, slammed the breath from her lungs. She was reminded, in a surge of excruciating emotion, of the sweet knowingness of his kiss. The melting ache of his fingers on her breasts.

      Then she realised he was holding that piece of paper.

      He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and just looked at her. Rosalie hitched up her chin. ‘Locking up women now,’ she declared with scorn. ‘What right have you to keep me here against my will—Captain Stewart?’

      He ignored her question. ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ he said. ‘About who you are. You’re versatile, aren’t you, Athena?’ He stepped closer and pointed at the finger on which she wore the cheap little wedding band. ‘You weren’t wearing that last night. Does your husband know you were playing the whore at the Temple of Beauty?’

      Fiddlesticks. She should have taken the stupid thing off. She jutted her chin. ‘I’m a widow, as it happens!’

      ‘My condolences.’ His sympathy was shortlived. ‘And your real name is …?’

      ‘R-Rosalie.’

      ‘Rosalie,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And do you by any chance pen scurrilous articles for a rag called The Scribbler?’

      Oh, Lord. ‘I don’t see why you should—’

      He waved the sheet at her. ‘Fellow about town. That’s how the journalist Ro Rowland describes himself—or should I say herself? I wasn’t born yesterday; I am acquainted with London’s gutter press.’

      The colour drained from her face. That meant Helen was being dragged into this! This was just what Rosalie had wanted to avoid; this was one reason why Rosalie had never told Helen or anybody the name of Linette’s seducer, even though she’d realised it might have hastened her search