Silent Night, Sinful Night Page 23

  To come home . . .

  He knew he ought to do the right thing and have the authorities deal with her, yet somehow he always managed to find an excuse not to do so.

  She was a beautiful, albeit sly, thief. He wanted to do the right thing, but maybe there were reasons behind why she did what she did. Complicated didn’t even begin to describe all the feelings at odds and chasing themselves merrily in his brain. He’d have trouble sorting them out if he ever sat down to analyze them. Luckily, he wasn’t the brooding type but more a man of action.

  Such is love . . .

  What he felt for her—this glowing and pulsating warmth in his chest, this urge to lay the world at her feet just to see her smile once like she had when she’d murmured that hasty “thank you” and stashed the purse away—was this love? Was he falling for her?

  If so, they didn’t have a future together, he grumbled in his mind as he walked down the hall to reach the alcove that would allow him to slip into his room undetected.

  He’d reached the door to his room, but his gut told him to enter from the hidden passage behind the tapestry. It was just a funny feeling, foolish perhaps, but he hadn’t made it this far without learning to trust his instincts implicitly.

  His thoughts turned back to Beatrice like they always seemed to since he’d been home. She had to change. She couldn’t go on like this. It needed to stop. Sooner or later, it would kill her, either literally if she got caught, or it would gradually snatch away a tiny piece of her soul each time she had to lie to survive.

  He eased the door open, the hinges too well oiled to make a sound. His hand was about to sweep a bit of the tapestry aside to catch a glimpse of his room, but Winston halted and frowned. He was keeping his more-than-shady past hidden from her, too. If she was hiding behind her own mask, then so was he. How much longer would they keep up lying to each other? He wanted her to trust him, but that was something he couldn’t force. He also wanted to trust her. Maybe he should take the first step? But there was no neat and tidy way to broach the subject except saying, I’m utterly sorry. I happen to know you’re not who you are, but rather a thief who has stolen Lady Ponsonby’s necklace. Would you kindly hand it over so that we can give it back? Not bloody likely.

  For that matter, how much longer was he going to deliberate on whether to talk openly with her while hiding behind a dusty tapestry in his own room?

  The lid of the chest at the foot of his bed snapped shut. Winston’s head reared up and he narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he searched the room for the intruder from behind the moldy embroidered drapery.

  He couldn’t believe it. Short of rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm to make sure he really saw what he thought he did, his jaw went slack. Beatrice was standing in the middle of his room, blowing a stray strand of hair from her face. She was still facing the chest. Arms akimbo, she suddenly turned on her heel like the jerky needle of a compass, like she was trying to decide where to continue.

  “Looking for something?” Winston barely kept the growl out of his voice as he stepped out of his hiding place and strolled toward her.

  Whirling around, Beatrice caught her breath. She quickly recovered and raised her chin in defiance. “As a matter of fact, I am. Where’s Lady Ponsonby’s necklace?”

  Astonishment throttled him so hard he felt his eyes bulge.

  “Come now, you’ve heard me. Let’s stop the pretense.”

  “Gladly. Why are you searching my room when it’s you who has stolen it?”

  “Me?” She gasped, quivering with indignation. “Never. You’ve taken it. Hand it over and I’ll take it to Lady Ponsonby.”

  “I didn’t take it.” Winston willed her to hear the sincerity as he spoke.

  “Of course you did!”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Did too!”

  “Beatrice, you’re not who you want me to believe you are. For all I know, even the name you’ve given me is a false one. I know you’re a thief. A grifter who has set her mind on that ruby necklace. So where is it? Hand it over and I’ll take it to Lady Ponsonby.”

  At least she now had the decency to pale. “You’re not who you pretend to be!”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You aren’t the typical spoiled and self-absorbed son of new money. So who are you really? I think you’re the thief here.”

  Winston tried to bridge the sudden distance between them by reaching for her. “ ‘He’s the type’—isn’t that what you said about Lord Ponsonby? You can read people so well, but for some reason you can’t read me. Why?”

  Turning her back, he could see her shoulders hunch as she crossed her arms in front of her. “I can’t trust my instincts around you.”

  “But why not?”

  “I. Don’t. Know.”

  “Unfortunately for you, I am no thief, just the son of the governor-general.”

  She snorted, and Winston knew she didn’t believe a word he said.

  “But why are you tanned all over . . . um, well . . .” She blushed. “Almost all over.”

  He couldn’t stop his crooked grin from spreading. “Paid close attention, did you?”

  “Stop that. I am terribly vexed right now.”

  “All right, if you have to know, I have unusual sporting hobbies and it does get very hot there.”

  “Vague. Again. There? Where there?”

  “At sea, of course!”

  “What do you mean, of course? You’re a sailor?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’ve known about me . . . since when?”

  “Even before you gave me that name. Is it your real name?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought so.” His words came out on a long breath. “What’s your real name, then?”

  “I don’t need to give you any details.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I don’t understand.” She kept shaking her head as she stepped away from him. “All this time you’ve played me for a fool? And now you’re adding insult to injury by insisting on not having the necklace? Who do you think you are?”

  “I was hoping you’d realize in time—”

  “What? The error of my ways? What, are you a saint now, too?”

  “Beatrice, or whatever your name is, can’t you see? It’s not right. If you don’t stop here and now, I’ll make you stop.”

  “Not right? Not? Right? You have no idea what’s right and wrong. There is no black and white in my world. Only live and let live. That necklace would help me survive another year—or even two. What is it to Lady Ponsonby but a trinket? For me it’s sustenance. For you that may be wrong. But it’s what my life is all about.”

  “Don’t force me to call the authorities.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Consider yourself duly warned.”

  “Consider yourself the worst of asses. I’m done with you.”

  “Beatr—”

  The door swung shut with a loud bang. The remaining silence cleansed the turmoil in his mind.

  She was right. Winston groaned and rolled his eyes up. He not only was an ass, the worst of the lot, but also he was a hypocritical ass. Not so long ago, he’d lived on the edge as well. Every time the sails were set, he gambled with his life, since all the man-o’-wars haunting the oceans made the trade unpleasant at best, impossible at worst. He was more likely to get caught and hoisted from the deck by his neck and hung for piracy than come home alive. But it had been too much fun contributing to the losses of his father’s numerous endeavors.

  Clearly, an apology was in order. How could he make amends?

  He didn’t want to lose her company so soon. Her being with him felt right. Caring for her, thinking of ways to give her a nice Christmas without her pride getting in the way had provided him with a new purpose. She’d never had anyone care for her, spoil her, or even try to understand what it must have been like for her, and Winston wanted to give her all that.

  But
she’d probably not even allow him to grovel at her feet at this point.

  5

  Rosie slammed the door to her room shut. She liked her freedom and independence just fine and certainly didn’t need a man telling her what to do.

  Well, good riddance!

  Instead of stomping her feet, pouting, and whining like a spoiled child, Rosie pictured her fury frothing and rising in a pot like boiling milk. As she’d been taught by Miss Olson at St. Nicholas’s Hospital, she breathed in deeply and pictured letting go of all her rage with the long exhalation that followed. Sometimes more than one calming breath was required. This was one of those times.

  So Winston knew she wasn’t who she pretended to be. If he’d known she was lying all along, why would he believe her if she told the truth now? She certainly wouldn’t in his place. Her stomach clenched as a fresh bolt of defiance energized her. Furious, she paced the room.

  There was only one way to prove she hadn’t taken that necklace. She had to find it, now more than ever.

  But why would she want to prove anything—to him? It wasn’t important what he thought of her.

  He expected her to do “the right thing.” There was no wrong or right way to be a thief. There was only a good way and a bad way, and she was bloody good at it. She was who she was, and Winston could bloody well go to hell.

  This might be his world, but this was her life and her profession and she didn’t want or need to change. She loved what she did. She would stick to her original plan, find the necklace and be gone before he knew what hit him.

  It shouldn’t matter that she felt like she’d be betraying him if she took the necklace. She’d had to betray countless people before. Winston was no different, was he?

  Good grief, even she was sick of her own whiny thoughts. Rosie rubbed her nose, halting in her frenzied pacing.

  She needed to pack. Throwing open one chest, she gathered her rosewood hairbrush and comb and threw them inside.

  Rosie stopped and took a deep breath with both hands on her stomacher. This was ridiculous. Maybe the spirit of the season had finally gotten to her, but she couldn’t live knowing she’d betrayed him. She had to keep telling herself it would be just what he deserved. She just needed to focus and stop being such a sentimental fool. She must not let all the Christmas in the air get to her.

  She’d laid out a fine muslin nightdress and hadn’t worn it once, having spent every night . . . She mustn’t think about it. Or his gentleness. Or what strange feelings he’d kindled. Folding the nightgown, she held it to her chest. She chided herself for having let her guard drop, her mask slip. What had given her away that he’d known?

  Opening the paper wrapping of a dress, Rosie glimpsed inside. The soft nightgown slipped from her fingers as she looked at the exquisite yellow and lime sack-back gown she’d had especially made for this holiday. She hadn’t had a chance to wear that either. Her fingertips hovered over the delicate goldwork embroidery shaped like tiny sparrows on the flounces trimming the petticoat.

  How had he, in merely a heartbeat, smashed to rubble the walls that she’d spent years erecting between herself and the rest of the world? How incredibly arrogant had she been to believe herself immune to his charming wiles?

  Winston Matthews was every bad thing she could think of. She’d believed all those lies he’d fed her. In her mind, she’d even made him out to be some virtuous and noble man trying to find his way in the world. But he was just another typical son of another typically conceited family of new money.

  The ruby necklace wasn’t the only bauble of considerable worth here. She could probably settle for something else. She’d just have to find it. And for that purpose she’d better get downstairs. She’d show him just what a good thief she really was.

  Looking her best and hurrying at it was not Rosie’s forte, yet she managed to take the fastest bath in her life, and with the help of the maid she’d been assigned, was ready in no time at all. She turned in front of the polished mirror, looking at herself from all sides. They’d done quite well all things considered. The pearl-crowned pins seemed to have been strewn at random in her hair. She wore most of her hair up while some wild curls fell down her shoulders, adding to the overall impression of methodical unruliness.

  The tight corset pushed her bosom up so high that she looked more than well endowed. The décolletage was almost indecent and would certainly serve its purpose. At the back, the yellow box pleats on the shoulders fell loosely to the floor in a slight train. Open in front to better show off the goldwork on the stomacher, the lime-green petticoat boasted the same ruffles and golden sparrows as the gown. Flounces spilled from the elbow-length sleeves. Rosie should have worn a wide pannier with it, but it would only hinder her in maneuvering quickly from room to room without being detected, so she settled for a moderately wide hoop instead.

  As she descended the main stairs, some guests halted in their conversations as they looked up at her. Others let their words trail off. A moment later, mouths were clapped shut collectively.

  Maybe, Rosie thought, cringing inwardly, she’d overdone it. While being the reason for slack jaws and rude staring was quite flattering, it was not the desired effect.

  Just as well, Rosie decided as she saw Winston standing with his back to her in the middle of the room. She didn’t want to delve too deeply into why showing him what he could no longer have meant that much to her. What counted was that she got a ludicrous amount of satisfaction out of imagining he was among those pining after her.

  Her feet carried her closer to him on their own accord. Just before she reached him, she saw Lady Ponsonby in the far corner, and instantly she changed direction. She hadn’t had time to talk to her again and find out just what she had been about to tell her in the garden.

  A hand gripped her elbow and tugged a little too hard, forcing Rosie to stop. She almost got a crick in her neck from looking up at Winston. One would think she’d have gotten used to it by now. But somehow he was much more imposing, and those icicles of aloof contempt she’d mentally surrounded herself with chipped off and clinked on the floor.

  Something was wrong, her instincts screeched. Panic rushed through her body. Rosie swallowed hard, trying to understand her sudden queasiness or why her heart attempted to jump out of her chest right that moment.

  “I believe we haven’t met. Yet.”

  Realization dawned only when she registered the callous almost-smile on the pleasant mask of a predator who looked like an older version of Winston. His nearly golden eyes made it impossible for her to move, to breathe. This man, no doubt Winston’s father, exuded danger from every pore—and it was not the kind that made one’s groin hum in approval. Attempting to extricate her arm from his grasp, Rosie prayed her anxiety wasn’t etched on her face.

  “Father.”

  Rosie barely restrained a whimper when she felt Winston’s warmth by her side. She steeled herself when relief threatened to cause her knees to buckle.

  Something happened between the two men. Winston’s warning glower suddenly made his father’s scowl pale to insignificance until the older man’s fingers loosened and slipped away from her. Her lungs fired sharp protests at her and she remembered to breathe.

  Lady Ponsonby at the far back of the room came into focus once more. At first, Rosie couldn’t put a finger on what she saw on the woman’s face, but then understanding hit her. She couldn’t keep her curious gaze from bouncing back and forth between Lady Ponsonby’s dreamy yearning and Winston’s father, who didn’t even notice her.

  Winston’s father broke eye contact. “My study tomorrow morning, son. It seems I’ve underestimated you.” He gave his son a curt nod and bowed slightly to her.

  Winston’s eyes roamed her body like he wanted to make sure she was all right and in one piece. A slight frown appeared on his forehead. “Lady Latimer. If I might have a word with you—in private?”

  Rosie blinked. As soon as she recalled what had passed between them earlier, she tried to muster
some of that anger. But it was in vain. She was usually able to stay calm in any dangerous situation, but right now she felt too rattled to pull together her scattered wits. All she wanted was to get out of here, so she laid her hand on his proffered arm. “I believe you’ve mentioned something about an art collection in the long gallery upstairs?”

  Her light touch on his arm left him as soon as they reached the deserted long gallery. Two floors down, the musicians started playing a country dance, its echo reverberating from the high ceiling above. Winston watched her walking toward the balustrade. Her back to him, she braced her arms against the wooden parapet.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he stated plainly. “You were right. I’m a complete ass.”

  “Winston—” She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “No, please. I need you to hear this.” He took a step toward her but thought better of it. Turning his back, his gaze lingered on the numerous tapestries and paintings of strangers.

  He knew what he wanted to say; he just hoped it came out right. Resting his hand against the cold stone wall, serenity settled over him.

  “Not so long ago, I led a less-than-perfectly-acceptableand-law-abiding life myself among the meanest of thugs, the wickedest of whores, and the shrewdest of tricksters. I believe I felt at home with the worst of those miscreants because none of them asked anything of me. We all preferred to be left alone, respecting each other’s privacy. That’s why I knew what you were the moment I saw you.” Winston let his gaze sneak away from the empty cocoon of a clothing moth on the Flemish tapestry to take in the vision of her. She still kept her back to him, but her shoulders were squared now.

  “It’s true? You’re a pirate?” Her whisper was carried to him as the music below died.

  “Not anymore, no. I’m now first mate on a merchant ship. In time I will have my own ship.”

  “Does that mean you believe me when I say I haven’t stolen the necklace?”

  “I do, yes.”

  The silence between them was unbearable. Winston had to get closer, yearning to be near her as if her warmth and brightness could scare away the worries inside. “Will you . . .” Her bergamot perfume permeated the air and drew him closer still. “Do you accept my apology?” He buried his nose in her hair, pursing his lips to kiss one of the pearls in it. “I had no right to be such a self-righteous prig. I’m sorry. I was worried you’d get caught when I wouldn’t be there, because”—Winston swallowed—“I’ve come to care about you a lot . . . perhaps too much.”