The Wicked Truth

She rewarded him with a scornful frown. “Society has already hanged me, my lord. All that’s left is for me to stop kicking. Before I do that, I plan to find out who killed my best friend. I’ve no time to spend on my back with my legs in the air while I’m about it. The valet idea is a stroke of genius and I applaud it, but I will not be your whore.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “And if you try to force me, I’ll confess to murder and name you my partner in crime. Then we’ll see how you like dangling from a noose!”

With that, she snatched her valise out of his hand, turned on her heel and marched out into the late afternoon.

Neil couldn’t reconcile the jolt of admiration he felt with his former opinion of her. He desired her, pitied her when she wept and hated her when he thought. of all her liaisons. Now he admired her? He shook his head, hoping the marbles would roll back into place.

She’d really set him back on his heels with that, little speech of hers. Well, the battle lines were drawn now. He’d see just how long her lusty little nature would hold out when confined to his company exclusively.

He might not be the most desirable man around, but, by God, he’d be the only one available to her. And he’d make her beg.

They arrived in London very late. The inspector’s endless questions and the bouncing of the carriage prevented any semblance of rest.

Elizabeth spent the remainder of the night with Inspector MacLinden at the doctor’s bachelor rooms while the new earl roused Terry’s servants and packed them off to his country house.

The divan proved wretchedly uncomfortable, but Elizabeth flatly refused to take the doctor’s bed. She felt horribly out of sorts when MacLinden awakened her before dawn to take her to the Havington town house. Exhaustion and fear of discovery made her weak at the knees as they left the safety of Neil’s rented rooms. However, luck held, and she and the inspector encountered no one about at the ungodly hour.

When MacLinden abandoned her to Neil Bronwyn’s care, the wretch of a doctor had another unwelcome surprise to impart. The rakehell proposed they share a bedroom! Not bloody likely.

“You cannot insist on such a thing! The adjoining chamber will do just as well, and we’ll both be much more comfortable.” She watched him deposit her suitcase on a shelf in the back of the huge cherry wardrobe and busy himself stacking Terry’s hatboxes in front of it. His words sounded muffled. “I promised Lindy you’d remain within my sight at all times. You’ll sleep here, in the master chamber with me, and that’s the end of it.”

“But, my lord, you can’t expect that! It’s not—”

“Proper? Don’t be ridiculous. And call me Neil, at least in private. The title only reminds me of how I came by it. Even you can’t be so cruel as to throw it up every time you address me. It was bad enough having to take over Terry’s bed.”

“Well, you are the earl, whether you like it or not, and believe me, I can think of worse things to call you.” She made a rude noise with her lips. “And this is highly improper, Neil,” she said, emphasizing his name with a sneer. “Surely you could grant me privacy to sleep.”

“And have you sneaking out in the night to God knows what mischief? Your little escapades will have to cease, at least for the duration of the investigation. I won’t have you arranging assignations, however secret. There’s still that Thurston fellow you mentioned, who might very well be a prime suspect. I doubt you’re so eager to get rid of him now that Terry’s…gone.”

Elizabeth thought seriously about kicking the derriere he presented as he bent to open the bottom drawer of the bureau. “Thurston is my butler. He’s old as Hadrian’s Wall and in terrible health. I thought you were at my home to see to him the night we met,” she said.

Abruptly Neil straightened, and faced her. She noticed a fleeting expression of what appeared to be surprised relief before he covered it with a scowl.

“Be that as it may, Elizabeth, you’ll have to sleep in here. You’ve little need to preach propriety after all you’ve done. Even were we living openly together, copulating on the front lawn, no one could think worse of you than they do now.”

“You’re cruel,” she said softly, and turned away so he wouldn’t see her tears. “Mean,” she added for emphasis.

Suddenly he reached for her arm and took it, a gentle gesture that she shrugged off as he spoke. “I apologize, Elizabeth. That was uncalled for and I have no earthly idea what made me say it.”

“I don’t care,” she said, lifting her chin and rounding on him. “I’ve had enough of this! I’m sick of trying to explain. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Explanations for my lewd behavior, my shoddy little peccadilloes? Well, my fine lord, you’ll get no vulgar details and no plea for understanding, do you hear? You’ll get nothing from me. And if you continue to bait me so, I’ll surrender and take my chances with the courts!”

He looked abashed. “Fool! That’s suicide at this point and you know it.”

“Yes, I’ve considered that,” she said. “Seriously.”

“Suicide?” he whispered, obviously appalled. Then he grabbed her, his arms locking around her like a vise. His lips felt hard against her ear. “Nothing’s so bad as that, Elizabeth. Believe me, nothing! Promise me you’ll never think it again,” he demanded. “Promise me!”

Elizabeth let herself lean against him, hungry for a touch of human concern, however fleeting, no matter what stirred it. She burrowed her face into his linen shirtfront, ignoring the hard bump of a shirt stud against her cheek. Warmth enveloped her, comforting and yet disturbing, smelling subtly of exotic spice and the light starch of fresh linen. Strong hands on her back grasped urgently as though he searched for the source of her despair so he could tear it away.

Elizabeth fought the urge to slide her arms around him and promise him anything he wanted to hear. No! Trusting was what had gotten her into this mess. He might be a doctor and basically kind, but he was still a man for all that.

“Elizabeth…” The word emerged a soft entreaty, a longing sound caught somewhere between regret and desire.

Frantically, she pushed away, terrified that he meant to prey on her momentary weakness. “I didn’t mean that I wanted to die, you dolt. I merely meant I thought of the repercussions of surrender. Don’t pretend solicitude. False sympathy disgusts me. Don’t touch me again.”

With one hand reaching out in a conciliatory gesture, he watched her with a concentration that was unnerving. After several moments he shrugged his massive shoulders, dropped his hand to his side and looked away. “All right.”

Tension grew in the silence that followed. Nothing broke it but the ceaseless rain pattering against the window. Finally, Neil moved, and she sighed, realizing she’d been holding her breath.

His eyes avoided hers and he began with a forced lightness, “Well then, we’d best see to your disguise. Terry’s things should be a near fit since he is—was…” Neil swallowed hard. The false cheerfulness had disintegrated and he finished through clenched teeth. “He was small. Only a bit taller than you.” The heavy silence returned, uncomfortable and laden with grief.

Elizabeth moved close enough to touch his arm, and he whirled to glare at her, daring her to complete the move. “If his…if the clothes don’t fit, can you sew?”

“Of course I can sew,” she said with a touch of indignation. He must think her totally lacking in women’s skills. Well, socially acceptable skills, anyway.

She looked on as he plundered Terry’s things, tossing unmentionables, a folded shirt and stockings from the bureau to the bed. His sangfroid apparently restored, he turned to the wardrobe and thumbed through the hanging suits. With a satisfied nod, he plucked out a somber gray wool and tossed it down beside the linens.

His face reddened and he bit his bottom lip, releasing it with a little sucking sound. “You ought to, well, use something to, ah, diminish your upper proportions, I suppose.”

“Bind my breasts, you mean?” Elizabeth restated with a lift of her brows. She loved to watch him blush. That he could even do so took her completely by surprise. He was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t resist testing the extent of his capillary functions. “What of the, ah, lower proportions, my lord? Perhaps a nice sausage?” She laughed and shook her head. He was positively scarlet, even his neck.

“Deal with it as you see fit,” he said with a strained gruff-ness. Then, under his breath he added, “You truly are shameless.”

“Didn’t want to disappoint you,” she quipped, her good humor resurrected by his embarrassment. “Go find me some boots white I change.”

As soon as Neil disappeared, she hurried out of her clothes. The male apparel held a certain fascination. How wonderful to leave off all the cumbersome petticoats and the blasted corset. She wrapped a length of smooth linen toweling around her chest and pinned it securely. Not much to worry about, she thought, for once blessing her lack of abundance there.

When she buttoned the trouser flap, though, she looked into the full-length mirror and frowned. No, this would never do. Her earlier joke to make the doctor blush turned serious.

Searching the bureau drawers, she selected a stocking, rolled it up and stuffed it down past her waistband. Definitely not, she decided. Casting around the room, she spied Neil’s medical bag by the door. A moment’s plunder turned up a roll of cotton bandages, which she shaped appropriately—she hoped—and replaced the rolled-up stocking. Now then! Much better. She wriggled her hips, turned sideways and back and grinned. Yes, that looked right.

Wetting her hair from the pitcher on the nightstand and plying the hairbrush from her reticule, Elizabeth smoothed her short curls straight forward toward her face. She thought the overall effect looked rather convincing.

“Ready!” Deepening her voice a good octave, she called out to Neil, who had not yet returned from the dressing room.

When he appeared in the doorway, he dropped the boots.

“Well?” She assumed a pose, one hand resting on a slender hip as she’d seen Terry do a hundred times. Cocking her head, she raised her chin and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

If his shocked expression was any indication, the disguise was successful beyond hope. Of course it was. All she had to do was think how Terry would act, copy his mannerisms, his expressions, his voice. Elizabeth nodded. Yes, this was definitely going to work.

Neil swallowed heavily and shook his head. No, this was definitely not going to work.

Oh, she’d somehow gotten her chest flat enough beneath the starched shirt. But his eyes traveled the length of her legs, encased as they were in the fitted gray wool of Terry’s trousers. Shapely, feminine legs, topped by sweetly rounded hips that were all too evident below a belt-cinched waist.

And below the waist…? “What in God’s name have you got in your breeches?”

“What a naughty question, milord! You’ll never know. How’s my hair?”

He jerked his eyes away from her lower body and noticed her head, topped by a soft, wavy cap of red-gold minus its tousled ringlets. The style reminded him of Terry’s Brutus, a cut affected years earlier by Lord Byron, casually brushed forward to frame the face. A bit out-of-date, perhaps, but it neatly disguised her lack of side-whiskers.